Glass
by PlonkerOnDaLoose
Summary: Two hands separated by glass. So close, yet you might as well be a million miles away. Join Rogue as she grows a backbone, falls in love and finally breaks the glass. pyro/rogue/remy or PYROGMY!
1. Prologue

**A/N: **okay, a new story. I was just sitting up in bed, drugged up to the nines, watching _Midnight Express_ with my brother and my lovely nurse friend Richard (who has great taste in scrubs, let me tell you. Very fashionable altogether) when I was raped by a plot bunny. I'm still unsure as to whether it was an epiphany or a highly traumatic experience. Either way, this is the result. I hope you enjoy it.

**Disclaimer: **Obviously, I don't own X-Men. If I did, there would be a least a dozen Irish mutants. As it stands, there are none. Which, I find, is extremely distressing. I think no comic is complete without an Irish outpost. Also, seeing as one eighth of the world claims to be 'Irish' – yes, I am talking to you, Mister 'My Great-Great-Great-Grandma's Brother's Sister's Cousin's Mother-in-law's best friend was from Galway! I'm, like, totally Irish. Top o' the morning to yeh'. You know who you are.

Okay, moving on before someone gets sued. Probably me.

**Rating: **will stay a T, I guess, unless I decide otherwise. In that case, it could be anything. I haven't decided yet

**Pairing: **it's a progressive Pyro/Rogue featuring his Royal Remyness and, perhaps, someone else

Thank you to **_WandaW_** who, once again, Beta'd this story. She has the patience of a saint, that lady. Either that, or she's completely mental

**

* * *

Glass**

Prologue

_  
Our lives are made of glass and there is nothing we can do to protect ourselves.  
_Joyce Carol Oates

Rogue once read in a book that it only took nineteen minutes for your life to change completely. Only one thousand, one hundred and fourteen seconds for everything you ever knew to be irrevocably turned upside down and inside out. In essence, she agreed with the author. Over the course of the next nineteen minutes she could contract tropical malaria, or become a paraplegic, or get disintegrated by a nuclear bomb. They were all life-changing things, weren't they? Over the course of the next nineteen minutes she could win the lottery, or become a nun or be abducted by aliens. At a stretch, she could change her clothes, her hair and her nail polish in nineteen minutes. No one ever said the change had to be a big one. But, then again, in nineteen minutes she might just lose again at _Wii_ tennis or have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or pretend she didn't see Bobby and Kitty falling all over each as they played Piotr and Jubilee at foosball. When it all boiled down it, Rogue thought the author was wrong. Because it didn't take a nineteen whole minutes for life as you knew it to dissolve into nothingness. It only took one.

"Turn on the news, Jones," Kitty called across the rec room. Rogue watched as Jubilee craftily took advantage of her opponent's momentary lack of concentration to slot home a goal. She and Piotr high-fived while Bobby frowned, torn between wanting win the game fair and square and wanting to watch the news. Or did he just want to please Kitty? Rogue didn't know anymore, and, quite frankly, she didn't care.

"Do I have to?" Jones complained, aimlessly flicking through channels.

"Yes," Bobby told him firmly. "It's important we know what's going on. Especially with the Brotherhood out there going mental and attacking people and stuff."

Jubilee and Piotr scored another two goals while Kitty nodded in agreement with her partner. "Especially." Partner? Boyfriend? Idol, maybe, was a more appropriate word judging by the adoring looks Kitty sent Bobby. It was lucky she only did when his back was turned, Rogue thought, because if someone looked at her like that she was positive she would puke all over them. She cringed a little, feeling guilty. Kitty had been nothing but nice to her ever since she arrived at the mansion and she considered her a good friend; she didn't deserve such nasty thoughts. Bobby, on the other hand … Rogue had seen him. Sure, that night at the fountain Kitty had kissed him first, but he had kissed her back. And that wasn't the only time. His only saving grace was that he kept his conquests on the QT and refrained from playing tonsil hockey with Kitty across the breakfast table. And the funny thing was that Rogue was certain she would have forgiven him if he had been open with her about it, if he had just told her upfront that he liked Kitty and that he was sorry and that they should just be friends and blah blah blah. But he didn't. He chose to hide it from her. Rogue didn't understand it and she didn't like it.

With much muttered dissent Jones finally brought the TV back to CNN and slouched from the room with a parting gift of "Lame-os. What kind of sad freak watches the _news_?"

"Thanks Jones," Kitty called after him, abandoning the foosball and edging across the room to stand by the couch. Like a little lovesick puppy, Bobby followed her. Rogue rolled her eyes. As they said, it took two to tango.

" …_another terrorist attack by the Brotherhood of Mutants_," announced the newsreader in serious voice. Jubilee gasped and danced over to join Kitty, Piotr at her heels, his arms folded and his expression grave. He shot a meaningful look at Bobby and they both nodded. Rogue stayed put. The X-Men had congregated around the couch – but she was not an X-Man. One month ago she had given up her powers and, no matter what the whisperers said, she was enjoying every minute of her new-found freedom.

" …_attack on a research facility in north-west Texas. So far we have confirmation on fifteen fatalities _…"

"This is ridiculous," snapped Kitty angrily. "I mean, they're, like, giving all Mutants a bad name. It's so totally unfair. I know Magneto isn't there anymore but if they stopped and thought about it for, like, two secs, they'd see it's really bad idea."

"At least the government knows it's only few radicals doing it and not all of us," Bobby reasoned.

Piotr wasn't so optimistic. "I think if things keep going the vay they are it won't matter who's doing vhat," he said, his deep, calm voice tinted with a faded Russian accent. "The government'll have no choice but to act. They'll have to do something or there'll be riots. People are scared. The Brotherhood aren't targeting shops or subvay stations. They're targeting research centres … And homes. People … It's really veird. Erratic." He scratched his head and finished ominously, "It's almost like they're looking for something. Or someone."

"Yes," agreed Kitty. Then she turned to Rogue. "What do you think, Rogue?"

Rogue started, surprised at being asked her opinion. She shrugged. "Ah think ya'll should try and sort out the Brotherhood problem before the government feels they need tah."

"That's really smart, Rogue," Kitty said. Rogue scowled at her tone of surprise. The Cure suppressed her mutation, not her IQ. Unfazed, Kitty beamed up at Bobby. "Think about it, Bobby. If the X-Men can stop the Brotherhood attacking people, people will see that not all Mutants are bad guys."

"And the government won't have to do anything, which will save money," Bobby added.

"And you can be guaranteed that vhat ever ve do vill be ten times better than vhat the government vill do," Piotr finished wisely.

"We should tell Storm!" Kitty exclaimed jubilantly.

Rogue sighed inwardly. For someone who could recite all ninety-nine elements in chronological order without pausing to think, Kitty could sure be stupid. She was book-smart, computer-smart, people-smart, saving-the-world-smart, Jubilee-smart, and even boy-smart, but she wasn't smart-smart. She had no common sense. How on earth could she not think that Storm and Logan just _might_ have had the same discussion when the first attack happened? And did she really think that if there was anything that could be done to stop the series of seemingly random attacks that Storm and Logan would not have done everything in their power to do so? Rogue got to her feet. It was almost ten o'clock. She would go back to her room, have a shower, wash her hair and finish her history essay, leaving the Three Musketeers (plus Jubilee, who was too young to be an X-Man) to unravel the fabrics of the universe.

"Where you going?" Bobby asked as she walked by him.

"Mah room," Rogue answered pleasantly. "Ah wasn't aware Ah needed ya're permission."

Bobby frowned disapprovingly. He gestures at the TV, still spewing live footage of teams of people – everyone from the head honchos at Homeland Security to the local news team – all milling around the decimated buildings like flies to a rotting corpse. As with all of the recent Brotherhood attacks, there was no evidence of fire. Just destruction. "Don't you want to watch the news?"

"Nah," Rogue said lightly, shaking her head and shrugging. "Not really."

"Why not?"

"Why?" Rogue countered blandly. "Why bother? It's only gonna be the exact same as yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. More attacks, more anti-Mutant protests, more war and famine and death, more bad news. Ah don't need to see it on the TV tah know it's happenin'."

"It's not the same," Kitty protested. "Last time the attack was in some backwoods town in North Dakota. Today it happened in Texas."

Rogue resisted the urge to slap herself on the forehead in pure exasperation. "Who cares where they are? That ain't the point. The point is people don't like Mutants. They never did and they never will. And because of that, the Brotherhood are gonna keep bein' terrorists and, so long as they do that, Ah'm gonna hafta watch it on the news. And Ah'm sick of it." She folded her arms, point proven.

"Rogue has a point," Poitr said.

"She does?" Bobby asked, surprised.

"Yes. She's right. People's dislike for Mutants and the actions of the Brotherhood are connected in a vicious cycle," he explained.

"And we need to break that cycle," Jubilee finished excitedly.

"Ya don't say," Rogue mumbled sarcastically to herself.

"So what do we do?" Bobby wondered aloud.

_We don't put you in charge, that's for sure_, Rogue snickered mentally.

"Simple," Piotr said. "Ve need to stop the Brotherhood. If ve can do that people vill see that Mutants don't condone their behaviour, and that ve intend to abide by the law and are fully capable of policing our own vhen they step out of line." Rogue agreed with Piotr, but she could not help but to think that the X-Men had been constantly cleaning up the Brotherhood's messes for the past few years and, instead of things getting better for Mutants, they had gotten worse. The only thing that was saving them now was Dr. Hank McCoy's grace as a diplomat and Magneto's absence from the Brotherhood attacks. Rogue guessed the government assumed that without Magneto the Brotherhood would soon run out of steam and fade away. Little did the government know that when one 'assumes', they make an _ass_ out of _u _and _me_.

"And how do we do that?"

"Ve find out their plan of attack and intercept it before it can be put into action … Duh."

Rogue grinned. _Amen on that _duh_, my metal-plated amigo._

"But how do we find out their plans?" Kitty challenged. "They don't exactly post them on their MySpace account."

Jubilee raised her eyebrows. "The Brotherhood has a MySpace account? For real?" She sounded impressed.

"It's was a joke, Jubes."

"Well, yeah, maybe they should have one," Jubilee retorted defensively. "Obama had one and it worked for him."

"So you're suggesting Magneto run for president now?" Bobby teased.

"No," Jubilee said, blushing a little. "But if they had one we could pretend to be someone interested in joining and find out some of their plans and stuff. By, like, a spy. James Bond."

"That's, like, a really good idea!" Kitty gasped. "That's exactly what we need! Jubes, you're a genius!"

"I already have a MySpace account."

Kitty shook her head. "No, not the MySpace account. _A spy!_ Someone who can infiltrate the Brotherhood and report back to us."

"But who vould go?" Piotr asked slowly. "None of us can because Pyro knows us all."

"He's not there," Rogue said quickly.

They all turned to look at her.

"How do you know that?" Bobby demanded.

"Because none of the attacks are connected to fire. If Pyro was there, Ah think ya'd be safe in bettin' that sumthin' would be burnin'."

Piotr was still doubtful. "That still leaves Magneto. He saw us all at Alcatraz. I don't think he's forgotten us."

"But Magneto's not there," Bobby pointed out. "So we'd be okay."

"Eh guys …" Her face stricken, Jubilee pointed a shaking figure the TV. "About Magneto …"

"Like, OMG!" Kitty cried out, clapping her hands to her mouth. "That's the _Pentagon!_"

Rogue stared at the TV, horror flooding through her like there was ice in her veins instead of blood. Sure enough, there was Magneto, Master of Magnetism, standing on a mountain of crushed cars while all around him panic reigned supreme. A strip of red at the bottom read _breaking news_ and frantic reporter was panting into his microphone while simultaneously trying to avoid being crushed by UFOs.

" … _Brotherhood terrorists attacking the Pentagon. Magneto is among them. He appears to have full use of his powers. This can only mean one thing. The Cure has failed _…"

Back in the news studio the anchorman had a spokesperson from Worthington Labs on conference call. Rogue saw their mouths opening but she heard nothing. Echoing around her head were the words _the Cure has failed _…_ Cure has failed _…_ Cure has failed _…_ Cure _…_ failed _…_ failed _…

Nineteen minutes for your life to change completely? Nineteen fucking seconds was all it took; all it took for your life to shatter into a billion irreconcilable pieces, just like glass.

* * *

Soooo … What do people think? I'm not quite sure if it was the Muse or the Medication talking when I wrote this. I would appreciate any and all feedback, as always.

Cheers, Plonksie.


	2. Chapter One

Thanks to all my reviewers. Consider yourselves furnished with a freshly-drawn pint of cyber-Guinness, as purchased for you by _moi_. And if you don't like Guinness (like me), you're more than welcome to a packet of Meanies and a cheese toastie

_**Genie05 the second**_

_**LadyPup**_

_**Karma****'**__**s Girl**_

_**summergirlforever**_

_**SayaRavenHope**_

_**coup fatal**_

_**NitrogrenFixation**_

And three cheers for my long-suffering Beta _**WandaW**_

**

* * *

Glass**

Chapter One – It's A New Dawn, A New Day, A New Life For Me, And, Dagnabbit Bitch, I'm Feelin' Pretty Motherfuckin' Good

_  
Each day I live in a glass room unless I break it with the thrusting of my senses and pass through the splintered walls to the great landscape.  
_Mervyn Peake

.

_

* * *

" … Brotherhood terrorists attacking the Pentagon. Magneto is among them. He appears to have full use of his powers. This can only mean one thing. The Cure has failed …"_

* * *

That had been yesterday. 9:47 pm. Rogue had not left her room since.

For the first hour they had respected her privacy. Only Storm came to see her. The Weather Witch sat on the end of her bed and said if Rogue needed anything or wanted to talk, she was there for her. She gave Rogue's shoulder a brief squeeze and stood up to leave. Rogue opened her mouth to voice the immense tide of gratitude she felt washing over her as Storm departed the room, but no words would come out.

"It's all right, Rogue," Storm said with a kind smile. "It's all right. And remember, whatever your choice may be, there will always be a place for you here. This is your home for as long as you want it to be."

Rogue just nodded.

The second hour brought about a multitude of assaults on her door. Piotr, Jubilee, Bobby and Kitty had all done shifts in proclaiming their undying sympathies and assuring her if she wanted to talk they were there. Though Rogue was moved by her friends' sincerity and perseverance, she did not feel like talking to anyone, least of all Bobby. The knocks petered off as the night grew old. Jubilee brought her a midnight feast at four o'clock, laying down her wares by the door. Touched as she was by Jubilee's thoughtful gesture, Rogue left the food where it was; even the thought of eating made her feel queasy.

Logan arrived with breakfast. He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, his arms folded across his chest. "I'm here for ya, kid," he said in the gruff voice he used when confronted with emotion. "Whenever you're ready …" he trailed off and carefully set down the waffles and coffee on her bedside table. She touched his hand but felt nothing. Logan said nothing. He stumped back across the room and pulled open the door. Then he stopped and turned back around to face her. "Just know that ya got people here who really care about ya. And don't do anything stupid, okay?"

Stupid? What did he mean by stupid, Rogue wondered. Did he think that she was going to commit suicide? That she was going to kill herself? She would be lying if she said the thought hadn't prowled around her mind, but she ignored it. She was sad, angry, a little ashamed and bitterly disappointed by the failure of the Cure – not suicidal. She put on her gloves and sat by the window.

Throughout the day Jubilee brought her food every hour or so. Cheese Puffs, a bowl of Captain Crunch without a spoon, a handful of distorted Hersey's Kisses that looked like they were from the Stone Age, a peach and strawberry smoothie, a packet of M&Ms and enough fruit to sink a ship. Piotr knocked on the door and called out to her every time he passed by. Kitty attempted a few timid conversations through the wall, but each time she gave up more quickly and by ten PM Rogue hadn't heard from her in over three hours. Bobby steered clear completely. Rogue tried not to think about him, if he and Kitty were together, and, if they were, what they might be doing. What she might be doing with some faceless boy from her old High School down in Mississippi had she not been so cruelly robbed of her precious teenage years by her so-called 'gift'.

But as she thought of her powers with thoughts as acidic as hers were, she felt guilty. Some people would have killed to have a Mutation, though perhaps not one like hers. Rogue found her thoughts straying to jealousy of those with controllable powers, powers they could use to benefit others and have fun with. Why couldn't she have gotten one of them? – Why couldn't she be like Kitty or Bobby? Or even Pyro! He loved his Mutation more than life itself and it loved him back. Life wasn't fair.

It was night now. 11:13 by Rogue's watch. Outside her window the cold February rain poured down. Drops of water rolled down the external pane. Rogue touched her forehead to the cool glass. The sky was crying, but she was not. Nor was she going to.

"Rogue?"

Startled, Rogue whirled around. Kitty stood just inside her room. Obviously she had phased in through the locked door. The look on her face suggested she had been chased into the room by a mad axe man only to find a whole squadron of them on the other side of the door. She kept biting her lip and wringing her hands. Rogue frowned a little, standing up. Had something happened?

"Kitty," she began, but Kitty cut her off.

"I'm so sorry," she squeaked, her voice an octave higher than usual. "I know I shouldn't have phased into your room. It was rude. And I'm, like, sorry. I know this a really bad time for you – and I'm totally here for you … But I really need to talk to you. If you don't mind …" she trailed off, her expression akin to that of a man waiting for the hangman to sling the noose around his neck.

Rogue gave a little shrug and held out her hands. "Talk? Sure, we can talk. About ya, right?"

Kitty nodded. "Yeah. About me … and Bobby." She whispered his name, as if it would hurt Rogue less if it were said quietly.

Rogue blinked. "Oh."

"I'm so sorry, Rogue." Kitty opened her mouth and a river of words came charging forth through the open floodgates. "I feel soooo bad, I do, and Bobby didn't want me to tell you but I just had to because you're my best friend and I can't keep on running around behind your back, and I swear I didn't mean to, like, lead him on or anything – I mean, you always knew I had a crush on him, and I kissed him, and it was a mistake, and I'm sorry, and then he kissed me back, and I kissed him back and – and – and … I'm sorry." Teetering dangerously on the verge of tears, Kitty looked imploringly up at Rogue. "Please don't be mad."

Rogue said nothing. She had been anticipating this conversation for a while now, gearing herself up for the emotional onslaught she had assumed would hit her like a ton a of bricks when Bobby broke up with her … But she felt nothing. Nothing at all, maybe except a little disappointment. And it wasn't even disappointment that they hadn't been able to work their problems out and carried on. It was disappointment that Bobby was not a big enough man to break up with her himself; disappointment that she had wasted so much of her valuable time aching over Bobby Drake.

"You're mad, aren't you?" Kitty whispered. "You're really mad at me. And you, like, totally should be. I'm an awful person. An awful friend. I ask you – what kind of friend kisses her best friend's boyfriend behind her back? Oh my God, Rogue, I'm so sorry. For everything … You're really mad. Oh my God, you're so mad."

Rogue stared at the younger girl. She had been so deep in thought that she had almost forgotten that Kitty was in the room.

"Please don't be mad," Kitty begged.

"Ah'm not mad," Rogue said gently after a long silence. "Ah know Ah should be, but Ah'm not."

It was Kitty's turn to stare. "You're … not … mad …?" she sounded so confused and upset that Rogue felt an urge to comfort her. A little laugh escaped her lips at the irony of the situation: her life had been ripped from under her like a rug, and she felt that it was she who ought to be doing the comforting, as opposed to being comforted.

Rogue shook her head. "Ah'm not mad," she repeated with conviction. A smile was beginning to creep across her face. "Honest. Ah swear." She felt oddly buoyant, like she had been relieved of a heavy burden, or like a giant balloon was being inflated inside of her, lifting her off the ground.

"You're not mad?"

"No!" Rogue was really smiling now. She got down on her knees and pulled her faithful duffel bag out from under her bed, dumped it on the bed and practically sprinted to the dresser. "Ah'm not mad at all. In fact, believe it or not, Ah'm _glad_. Ah'm actually really happy. Happier than Ah've been in ages. Thanks, Kit." She threw her friend a grin as she emptied the contents of her underwear drawer into the duffel.

"What are you doing?" Kitty asked urgently, following Rogue's actions with wide eyes.

"Packing," Rogue replied jubilantly, adding three pairs of jeans to the bag.

"You're leaving?"

"Yup."

"What?" Kitty panicked. "You can't leave because of me. I won't see Bobby. _You can't leave!_"

Rogue gently took Kitty by the shoulders. "This has nuthin' to do with you – or Bobby. It's all about me."

"I – I don't understand."

"Neither do Ah," Rogue assured her cheerfully, running to the bathroom and cramming all her toiletries into her toiletries bag. "But Ah know it's what Ah gotta do."

"_Why?_" Kitty sounded deeply concerned.

Rogue shoved her toiletries bag into her duffel bag and stood still for a minute, struggling to put her feelings into something as crude as words. She preserved because she felt she owed Kitty an explanation – at least to save the poor girl from blaming her departure on herself. "It's layke/like this, Kitty. Before Ah came here, Ah was someone else. No – not in that way. Ah'm not talkin' about who Ah was before mah Mutation manifested. Ah'm talkin' about a girl who planned tah hitchhike her way from Mississippi all the way up to Alaska," she said in a slow voice, choosing her words with great care. "And that girl got there, she got to Alaska, all bah herself. And, somehow, since Ah've been here, that girl has gone away. She would never have lain down and let life walk all over her. She would'a got out there and did what she wanted to do, Mutation or no Mutation … Ah haven't been that girl in so long Kitty, Ah've forgotten the first thing about her. And Ah miss her. Ah miss that me. Ah want to find her again. Do ya understand?"

Kitty nodded miserably. "But can't you, like, find her here?"

Rogue shook her head, grinning. "Where's the fun in that?"

"You could be an X-Man," Kitty proposed desperately. "That's fun."

"Are ya blackmailin' me, Katherine Pyrde?" Rogue laughed, zipping up her bag and wrapping her scarf around her throat.

Kitty looked her up and down, taking in her heavy green coat, gloves and scarf, and packed bag. "There's nothing I can say to make you stay, is there?" she asked in small voice.

"No," Rogue replied, gently but firmly. "There ain't."

"But you'll come back, won't you?"

Rogue stopped short. Would she come back? "Ah don't know," she answered honestly. "Maybe, maybe not. Ah have no idea what Ah'm gonna do once Ah walk out that door, and Ah'm gonna do that in five minutes. How the heck am Ah supposed tah know what Ah gonna be doing five months from now?" she joked.

"Five months is a long time," Kitty said obviously.

"Ah need a long time."

"Will you call me?"

"Sure. If ya want me to," Rogue agreed amiably. "Ah'll send ya postcards too. And Jubilee and Pete."

"That'd be, like, totally great," Kitty said, a weak smile fighting through. Rogue smoothed down her bedspread before hoisting her duffel bag up onto her back. Kitty bit her lip. She looked as if she doing some serious thinking. Rogue waited patiently for her friend to say what she needed to. Kitty made up her mind and dug in her pocket. She held out her shiny silver cell phone to Rogue. "Take it."

"Ah already have a cell," Rogue said, unsure of what Kitty was getting at.

Kitty raised her eyebrows. "Rogue. You have a brick, not a cell. And the battery only lasts, like, five hours. What would happen if you went on a six hour bus ride?"

"Ah guess Ah'd have to turn it off for an hour or so," Rogue replied stiffly, put out at Kitty's disrespect for her cell. Sure, it was old and very solid, but it did work. It couldn't download live TV but it could call people – wasn't that the point of a phone?

Kitty kept shaking her head. "I want you to take this. Wait, like, two secs and I'll go and get the charger." Not giving Rogue a chance to politely decline her offer, she shoved her cell into Rogue's reluctant hand and disappeared through the wall into her own bedroom, reappearing seconds later with the cord in her hands.

"Ah can't take this, Kitty," Rogue said seriously. "This is ya cell. How can ya call home without it?"

Kitty rolled her eyes. "Jeez, Rogue. This is a school. There might just be another phone or twenty lying around. And my parents will get me a new one." Kitty was one of the lucky few whose parents had accepted that their daughter was a Mutant without much fuss. "I'll just say I lost this one. Problem solved."

"Kitty …" Rogue stammered. "Ah … Ah don't know what to say …"

Kitty smiled. "Thank you's good. Consider it repayment," she added sheepishly.

"For what?"

"Bobby."

"Ya don't owe me anythin'," Rogue said seriously.

"I don't now," Kitty grinned. Rogue smiled too. She slipped the cell into her pocket.

"Thanks."

"No prob," Kitty said in a business-like tone. "Now quick, run before Jubes finds out you're leaving."

Rogue clapped a hand to her mouth. "Oh mah Gawd! Jubilee! Ah haven't said goodbye."

"I'll say it for you," Kitty assured her.

"And to Pete," Rogue pressed her anxiously. "He's been so sweet."

"And Pete," Kitty promised. There was a slightly awkward moment as they both sensed Bobby's name in the offing but Kitty recovered quickly. She gave Rogue another hug and skipped away down the corridor, vanishing through a wall. Taking a deep breath, Rogue turned around and headed for the front door, praying that she wouldn't run into Storm on her way. Thankfully, she got to the door undetected. She shimmied her bag higher up her back and reached out to open the door when it opened from the outside.

"Hey, kid."

"Logan!" Rogue exclaimed, her heart thumping in her chest. "Ya scared me!"

Logan quirked an eyebrow. Then his face tightened into a frown as he took in her bag and coat. "Ya goin' somewhere?"

Rogue nodded. "Yeah. How did ya guess?" Logan pointed at the duffel. Rogue smiled ruefully. "Ah guess the bag was a bit of a giveaway, right?"

Logan nodded stiffly. "Right. Where ya goin'?"

Rogue shrugged. "Ah don't know."

"Ya don't know or ya don't care?" Logan demanded.

Rogue squared her shoulders. "Pick one."

The familiar words brought a smile to both of their faces.

Logan sighed and rubbed his face. "Need a ride?"

"No thanks," Rogue said softly. "This is sumthin' Ah wanna do on my own."

"I meant to the bus station." Logan looked behind him out into the night. "It's rainin' cats and dogs out there."

His voice was hopeful and Rogue felt bad turning down his offer. "Thanks, Logan, but no."

"It's only a bus station."

"Well, if it's _only_ a bus station, Ah can walk there, can't Ah?" Rogue returned imperiously. Logan grinned and tentatively reached out to ruffle her hair.

"You're somethin', kid," he said, shaking his head. "I'll give ya that."

"Bye Logan."

"Bye … Rogue."

As Rogue stepped out into the night she realised it was the first time he had called her Rogue. Spinning back around, she called out his name. "Logan?"

Logan looked at her over his shoulder. "Yeah, kid?"

"About that ride …"

They didn't talk on their way to the bus station. It was only a few blocks away and, to Rogue, it felt like the journey had only just started when Logan pulled the car to a stop. He rummaged in the pocket of his leather jacket, fishing out a handful of crumpled bills. "Here," he said, pushing the money into Rogue's hand. There was no room for leeway in his voice and Rogue didn't waste her breath arguing. She accepted the money, though she intended to deposit it on the dash as soon as Logan's back was turned.

A bus came and went and she didn't get out of the car.

"Can I ask you a question?" Logan growled suddenly.

"S-sure," Rogue said, surprised by his rough tone. "Sure."

"Why are doin' this? Leavin'?" He cocked his head, scrutinising her with a frown on his face. "This isn't because ya had a fight with Bobby, is it? 'Cause if it is, I'll kill the bastard."

Rogue snorted with laughter and shook her head. "No. It's not because o' Bobby. Or Kitty, or anyone, or the Cure. It's because o' me. This is sumthin' Ah wanna do."

"Hmmm." Logan didn't sound convinced. He folded his arms and continued to study her, as if the answers he was looking for would suddenly appear on her forehead.

"Haven't ya ever done sumthin' ya just wanted to do?" Rogue asked him, exasperated. "C'mon!? Just felt the urge to get out there and start doin' it? Ever felt spontaneous?"

"Like with Alaska?" Logan asked dubiously.

Rogue pulled a face. "No … That was all planned. It wasn't spontaneous."

Logan shook his head, looking down at the steering wheel. He heaved a sigh and gazed out the window. "This isn't spontaneous either, is it?"

Rogue closed her eyes. "No."

A bus pulled up in front of the station. Its tag read _New York City_. Rogue unbuckled her seatbelt. "That's mah bus," she said quietly, struggling out into the rain, leaving the money on her seat. Logan got out too and walked her into the station. He insisted on buying her ticket. They stood together in the rain while everyone else crammed their bags in the luggage hold and boarded the bus. The driver honked and Rogue sprang to action. She stowed her duffel with the other bags and searched her pockets for her ticket. She couldn't find it.

"Mah ticket!" she gasped, staring at Logan.

He rolled his eyes and conjured it from an inner pocket of his jacket. Pressing it into her palm, her pulled her into a fatherly embrace. Kissing the top of her head, he held her by the shoulders and took a step back the better to see her. "Miss ya, kid," he said gruffly.

Rogue smiled, fighting against the lump that was threatening to capture her throat. "Me too."

"I'll be callin' ya," he warned. "Checkin' to make sure you're still alive."

"Okay," Rogue consented readily.

"Ya can call me any time if ya get into trouble. I'll pick ya up."

"Okay."

The bus driver banged on his horn again.

Logan tried for a smile. He inclined his head toward the bus. "Go." Rogue opened her mouth, shut it and nodded helplessly. "Go," Logan repeated gently. "That dick ain't gonna wait much longer. Go. It's okay." And Rogue began to walk towards the bus. She clambered up the steps and handed the driver her ticket. He punched a hole in it with a grumble. Rogue stood at the top of the gangway, searching for empty seats. Through the window she saw Logan standing alone on the sidewalk.

"Wait, please," she called to the driver as she scrambled passed him back out into the rain. She ran through the puddles up to Logan and threw her arms around him. When they drew apart, she plucked up her courage, stood on tiptoe and quickly kissed his cheek. Just as quickly, she turned around and ran back to the bus. She sat down in the first free seat, one by the window halfway down the bus. Her face was wet; it might have just been the rain, but it could have been tears. Rogue glanced out the window. It stopped raining just as a new car pulled up and parked beside Logan's. It was Storm. Rogue gulped, expecting to be frogmarched back to the mansion, but Storm only went to stand beside Logan. She waved up at her. They were holding hands. Suddenly, Rogue felt alone. Logan had Storm, Kitty had Bobby and Jubilee had, for all intents and purposes, Piotr. Who did she have? An empty bus seat to her right and a ticket to New York. She waved back at Storm. She kept waving as the bus pulled out of the terminal and onto the road.

Rogue pressed her face to the window and watched her old life slip away, blurring into obscurity as her breath fogged the glass.

* * *

So? What do you think? I want to get into the action fast so Rogue didn't really have time for a ten-chapter-long soliloquy. Did it work?


	3. Chapter Two

Thanks so much to everyone for the AMAZING feedback I got last chapter on this story. Keep it up! Pretty please!

_Beta'__d by **WandaW**_

**

* * *

Glass**

Chapter Two – The Best Laid Plans of Mice, Men & Mutants

_  
Each of us is carving a stone, erecting a column, or cutting a piece of stained glass in the construction of something much bigger than ourselves.__  
_Adrienne Clarkson

.

_

* * *

Rogue pressed her face to the window and watched her old life slip away, blurring into obscurity as her breath fogged the glass._

* * *

(_Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters_)

Aside from Bobby, all the X-Men stood in Storm's office (formerly the Professor's) trying not to breathe too loudly as Logan and Storm held a conference call with the White House. Ever since Alcatraz, and especially since the Brotherhood began randomly attacking people, the President sought to forge a firm alliance with the X-Men. Logan was cynical about it, saying that when something went wrong and the X-Men couldn't help it, the people would blame them instead of the government. Storm and Hank McCoy, on the other hand, said it was the beginning of a fruitful relationship between humans and Mutants.

"Unfortunately, I don't know what Magneto is after," Storm was saying. "Tonight's attack on the Pentagon came as a shock to us all. But I can assure you that we are, as, I am sure, are you attempting to uncover his aims."

"That is a pity," lamented the President. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glancing at his Vice. "Are you sure you have no idea what these terrorists are after? They are Mutants, after all."

"And what the Hell's that supposed to mean?" demanded Logan, incensed. "You guys don't go around having tea parties with Osama Bin Laden just because he's a human, do you? What kind of fuc–– "

"Logan," hissed Storm sharply out of the corner of her mouth. "You are talking to the President of the United States. Please behave appropriately."

"I will when he does," Logan snapped back.

"Mr. President," Hank said quickly and diplomatically, overriding Logan before he could land himself in serious trouble. "You say you are sure that Magneto's actions outside the Pentagon were just a cover for an internal raid on the Pentagon's computer system. Have you any proof of this? Any witnesses, any CCTV footage?"

"All we have are dead bodies and blank tapes," growled Senator Trask angrily. "All our computers are jammed too."

"I see," Storm said quietly. They exchanged meaningless information for a little while longer and then terminated the connection.

"It sounds like the work of Douglas Ramsey to me," Hank said thoughtfully, packing up his briefcase. He was urgently needed in Washington.

"Who's that?" Piotr asked.

"Codename Cypher. An omni-linguist. He is a master of translating languages, spoken or written, human or alien in origin, including deciphering codes and computer languages," Hank explained. "Needless to say, the news that he is now working for Magneto is not good at all."

"Great," Logan growled sarcastically. "We're up against old bucket-head _and_ the original super-nerd."

"And Avalanche, Vanish, Dust, Acidity and Sabretooth," Kitty put up helpfully.

Logan rolled his eyes. "And Mystique. Her powers will be comin' back too."

"I wouldn't wager on Mystique returning to Magento's side," Storm said with a knowing smile. "Not after he abandoned her like that. She is a very proud woman and such an insult would be impossible for her to forgive."

"Thank Heaven for small mercies," Hank sighed, shaking Logan's hand, giving Storm a quick hug and winking at Kitty and Piotr before pulling open the office door. "I'll be in touch – Oh. Hello, Bobby." Just as Hank was leaving, Bobby came storming into the office looking furious.

"Where's Rogue?" he demanded. "I can't find her anywhere. I checked her room and all her stuff's gone."

Logan shrugged innocently. "How should I know? That kid's gotta mind of her own … _unlike you_," he added in an undertone. Storm shot him a reproachful look. Bobby turned to her.

"Do you know where she is?" he interrogated her roughly.

"Yes," Storm confessed, always honest. "I do."

"Where?"

"It is not my place to say."

"You mean she's _gone_?" Bobby spluttered, his voice rising. "That you let her _leave_? She'll get eaten alive out there! Her powers'll come back and some crazy guy will find out and kill her! What kind of idiot are you? How could you just let her leave? Just like that! How could you?"

"Sometimes you have to leave to come back," Storm said gently.

"We'll see about that," Bobby huffed, brandishing his cell phone like a weapon. He dialled Rogue's number and held it to his ear. The dial tone echoed around the suddenly silent room. They all listened as it rang and rang until Rogue's voicemail came up. Bobby hung up, scowling. "She didn't answer."

"Well maybe that means she doesn't want to talk to you," Logan sneered.

"Of course she wants to talk to me!" Bobby snapped. "_I'm _her _boyfriend_."

"Correction," Jubilee piped up, having snuck into the room with Bobby. "_Were _her boyfriend. She totally dumped you when she left, bro."

"You knew she left?" Bobby yelled, rounding on Jubilee. "And you didn't tell me!"

Jubilee shrugged. "Slipped my mind, I guess."

His face as black as thunder, Bobby rang Rogue's phone again, and again it rang off.

"Er – Bobby …" Kitty began awkwardly. "Yeah. I kinda gave Rogue my phone before she left so if you want to, like, talk to her, you have to call me …"

Bobby stared at her. "You _what?_"

"She – gave – Rogue – her – cell – phone," Jubilee told him in her best 'you-are-an-idiot-and-I'm-talking-really-slow-to-prove-it' voice.

Bobby staring turned to glaring. "You gave her your _phone?_ You let her _leave?_ What's _wrong_ with you Kitty?"

Kitty glowered up her boyfriend, her tiny hands on her hips. "Don't you go blaming all this on me, Bobby Drake. We all know you're half the reason she left." What she neglected to add was that she was the second half of the reason.

"This is bullcrap," Bobby muttered, punching Kitty's number into his cell. "I'm calling Rogue, finding out where she is and collecting her."

"Glad ya told us all," Logan sneered. "Now can ya go and do it somewhere else? The grown-ups are trying to have an important conversation here." He pointed at the door.

Insolently, Bobby stayed put, cell held to his ear. "Rogue?" he said shortly the moment she answered. "Where are you? What do you think you're doing running off like that? I'm coming to get you. Tell me where you are."

Her reply was tinny static to everyone but Logan. "Ah'm somewhere ya're not, Bobby Drake, and that's good enough for me." Logan smiled. _Atta girl. You show him._ He always thought that she could have done so much better than the Drake boy. Sure, he had a few good traits and Logan did believe he genuinely cared for her at the start. However, recently he had not treated her with the respect a lady such as Rogue deserves.

"This is all going to end in tears Rogue," Bobby replied hotly. "I'm telling you, come home."

Again, static. Then she hung up. Ashen-faced, Bobby slipped the cell back into his pocket. Her prior displeasure at her boyfriend forgotten, Kitty touched his arm. "Bobby?" she asked. "What did she say?"

"She said do you always do what you're told."

**xXxXxXxXxXx**

(_Brotherhood of Mutants HQ_)

They gathered around a metal table in a draughty old bunker in the Appalachians. The tension in the room was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Cypher had just told Magneto that the raid they had executed on the Pentagon had produced no leads.

"Do you mean to tell me," seethed Magneto, his voice deadly quiet, "that I exposed myself in public for nothing? After our little escapade last week the humans will retaliate hard against our brothers, yet we deemed this acceptable if we gained something by it. And you tell me that we gained …"

"Nothing," Cypher mumbled, his head hanging. He tried to redeem himself, "I searched the whole computer system. There was nothing. Not even a trace of a file on an old hard drive. And trust me on this, if there had been something, I would have found it. But there was nothing, man. Nothing."

"Very well," Magneto snapped. "You may go."

"I'm sorr–– "

Magneto raised his eyebrows at his latest recruit, a Californian omni-linguist by the name of Douglas Ramsey. "I said you may go."

"Yessir," Cypher said quickly and hurried from the room. The metal door remained open. It did not take long for the rest of the team to grasp the fact that they too were no longer welcome in the boardroom. The heavy door slid home behind them and Magneto was alone with Sabretooth.

"Maybe it would be easy to find whatever it is we're looking for if you told us what it was," he growled as respectfully as he could.

"I would," Magneto returned imperiously. "If I could trust you with it. I know all too well that we are not the only ones seeking this knowledge. Emma Frost and her Hellfire Club are on our scent."

"Why don't we let them find it and then steal it?" Sabretooth suggested.

Magneto gave a hollow laugh. "Stealing? From Emma Frost? Why, not even Gambit would dare."

Sabretooth groused into silence just as the door flew open and a vision in red leather came slinking into the room, her heels going clickity-clack on the metal floor. A whitish blur darted back and forth at her side.

"Wanda, my dear. And Pietro." Magneto greeted his daughter with a warm smile but did not extend the same courtesy to his son. The Maxmioff twins were as different as chalk and cheese in both character and appearance. Wanda was fiercely headstrong, intelligent and beautiful, a potent Class Four Mutant who went by the codename Scarlett Witch, whereas her older brother Pietro was impatient, impulsive and incompetent with floppy silver hair and rather dull grey-blue eyes.

"Father," Wanda returned regally, kissing her father on the cheek before moving onto to Sabretooth. "Victor," she purred, holding out her hand for him to kiss. She knew he wanted more; he knew he wasn't going to get it. "It's been so long."

"Too long," agreed Sabretooth in his gravely voice. Quickly he searched around for a compliment. "I like what you've done with your hair."

Wanda smirked, trailing her fingers through her scarlet locks. "I haven't done anything with my hair."

Sabretooth frowned. Her hair was most definitely different, but he could hardly challenge her openly, not if he liked his face the way it was. "I'm sure … something … different …"

"You obviously weren't paying me enough attention last time I was here," Wanda sulked, sticking out her bottom lip.

"I was," Sabretooth protested adamantly. He? Not pay her attention? How dare she suggest such a thing? As if a normal man could _not_ pay her attention! "I was."

"Oh really?" Wanda raised her eyebrows just like her father did.

"Yes really."

"How much?"

"A lot."

"Goodie-goodie. I do so love attention."

It was Sabretooth's turn to grin. "Well, if it's attention that you want, I'm your man."

"Indeed," Wanda deadpanned. "Now let go of my hand before you start shedding on me."

Sabretooth did as he was told. One did not argue with the boss's daughter.

"S'up-Sabre-my-man!" Pietro grinned, holding out his fist for a fist-bump. Sabretooth stalked past him and threw himself into a seat at the metal table. Pietro stood still with his fist suspended in mid-air until Wanda hissed at him to sit down.

"So," Wanda began, tossing her hair back over her shoulders. "While you boys were busy making a spectacle of yourselves on national television last week, I was enjoying the sun in Cuba–– "

"And-that-wasn't-all-she-was-doing," Pietro butted in, winking heavily while talking at two-hundred miles an hour.

Wanda rolled her eyes. "Pietro. Please. Do shut up. The grown-ups are trying to have a serious conversation here." Pietro sat back down, arms folded. "As I was saying, I was in Cuba, and while I was there, I chanced upon this …" Out from a place that all the men Wanda Maximoff had ever met wished to explore, she pulled a single sheet of paper. Smirking smugly, she handed it to her father. He flicked it open and read it once, then turned to his daughter with a slight frown on his face.

"What is this?" he asked delicately, giving the piece of paper a little shake. Catlike, Wanda slid into the seat next to her father and leant across the table the better to see the paper. Sabretooth leaned a little to the right the better to see Wanda.

"It's a name," Wanda said obviously.

Magneto bestowed his daughter with a rare smile. "I can see that."

"But-it's-not-just-_any_-old-name," Pietro continued dramatically. "This-name-is-our-ticket-to–– "

"Pietro," Wanda hissed. "What did I tell you about talking with your mouth open?"

"You-said-not-to."

"Exactly."

"But you can't talk unless your mouth's open," Sabretooth pointed out.

"Exactly." Sighing impatiently and tossing her hair back again, Wanda stabbed at the paper with a scarlet fingernail. "I met a man in Cuba who knew more than he ought to about certain things. He told me that the information we seek was a top-secret project that involved only a dozen people, and that all of them, along with all the hardcopies of the project, were killed two weeks after Alcatraz."

The room was silent for a moment.

"So there's no information?" Sabretooth demanded. "We've wasted all this time on something that was destroyed almost three months ago?"

"Dearest Vicky," Wanda said his name with a loving caress, her voice full of false affection. "If your brain was any smaller, I would be in danger of confusing you with Pietro."

"Hey!" Pietro objected. "I'm-not-stu–– "

"Pietro." Wanda pressed her finger to her lips. "Shhh. Thank you." She shared a patronising look with her father before continuing. "In answer to your questions, Vicky: yes, there is information; and yes, you have been wasting your time. But the time for wasting ends now. My friend told me that there is one person who knows the information. He was the one who destroyed it in the first place."

"Why?" Destroying priceless information sounded like a pretty stupid thing to do to Sabretooth.

"Obviously he thought it was dangerous," Wanda replied patronisingly. "That is generally why people destroy things."

"So-here's-the-plan: we-find-this person, torture-the-information-out-of-him-and-rule-the-world. Is-that-too-complicated-for-you? _Vicky?_" Pietro taunted unwisely. The feral Mutant surged out of his seat and Quicksilver took off at the speed of sound, Sabretooth pounding after him, claws out. Magneto rolled his eyes and Wanda giggled.

"I am surrounded by idiots," he lamented.

"Tell me about it."

"This name." Magneto pointed to the paper. "Jack MacNaughton. Codename Masque. Is this our man? The destroyer?"

Wanda shook her head. "Unfortunately not. It's the name of a Morlock and a former inmate in the Mutant prison on the island of _Blank_. Coincidentally, the humans took all those who survived the assault on Alcatraz to this prison … which was destroyed two weeks later in an explosion. My friend says he should know the name of our man."

Magneto stood up. "Well then what are we waiting for?" Pressing the intercom button, he barked a command to Cypher. "Cypher, rally the troops and find Jack MacNaughton. He is a Morlock that goes by the alias _Masque_. You have one week. Do not fail." Releasing the button, he held out his hand to Wanda. "Now, let us forget all this, and pretend that you are a dutiful daughter and that I am a good father.

Wanda took his hand and rose gracefully to her feet, her smile rather cold. "This is pleasant fiction."

**xXxXxXxXxXx**

(_The Hellfire Club HQ_)

Sebastian Shaw selected two cut-glass tumblers, half-filled one with ice and added a generous helping of the finest Irish triple-distilled single-malt whiskey to each; one for himself, and one for Emma Frost. Stoppering the Waterford Crystaldecanter, he picked up the two glasses and handed one to his partner. Emma accepted the glass with a gracious smile and set it down on the table. Sebastian did the same. He was president of the Hellfire Club and Emma, his second-in-command and protégé, was becoming too powerful (and power-hungry) by far. With ambition like hers, he would not have put it past her to slip something into his drink. He would drink when she did.

"You met with our mutual friend yesterday," Sebastian prompted, settling himself in his high-backed chair. 'Mutual friend' was what they called their informant inside the Brotherhood. Sebastian was a businessman at heart, and in his book it always paid to know what the competition was thinking. "What did she have to say? Anything of interest?"

Emma sat still for a moment, tracing the rim of her whiskey glass with a long pale finger. She appeared to be waiting for something. Just as her finger completed a full circle of the glass, there was a sharp rap on the door. Emma smiled.

"Come in," Sebastian called. The door opened, revealing two of his enforcers, Castor and Pollux Thomas, restraining a squirming Morlock between them. Sebastian's eyes widened, impressed against his will; once again, Emma had exceeded his expectations. She was so good, she was making him look bad. He resolved to do something about her.

"The Morlock, ma'am," stated Castor Thomas, depositing the petrified Mutant in the office's only free chair. Cowering beneath a filthy hooded cape, the Morlock was the ugliest creature Sebastian had ever laid eyes on. He more resembled the Hunchback of Notre Dame than he did a human being. Sebastian wrinkled his nose, dismissing the twins.

"Wait in the antechamber," he ordered them. "You will be needed to escort our friend– " he shuddered as he said the word. As if he, Sebastian Shaw, President of the Hellfire Club itself, would ever be _friends_ with a lowly Morlock " –back from whence he came."

"Yessir."

Emma watched them go, telekinetically closing the door the second the second twin exited the room. Still eying the door, she addressed the Morlock. "You are thinking of overpowering my colleague and I. You plan to leap up from your chair and latch onto my face, using your power to disfigure me and, doubtlessly in the ensuing chaos, escape … I would strongly advise you to abandon that course of action."

The Morlock paled beneath the layer grime covering his face. "Stay outta my head, bitch," he half-snarled, half-squeaked. "Or I'll–– "

"Somehow I don't think you'll do anything," interrupted Emma in frosty amusement, a cruel smile playing at her pale lips. "Your power requires direct contact with the victim to work. You are over there and I am all the way over here. What could you possibly do to me?"

"Who are you?" breathed the Morlock.

Emma raised her head proudly. "I am the White Queen, Class Four Mutant and Vice-President of the Hellfire Club. You are Masque, a Morlock and the dirt beneath my feet. However, you are also fortunate. Unlike dirt, you have a purpose in this life. You were incarcerated in the secret Mutant prison on _Blank _Island and escaped following the explosion–– "

Masque cut across her, his face strained. He obviously knew where the interrogation was going. Sebastian wondered if he had been questioned on this matter before; if indeed he had, then the Hellfire Club were behind in the race for the destroyer, the one with the knowledge. "I never knew his name," the Morlock insisted desperately. "I never knew his name, I swear."

Emma frowned for a moment, looking at the Morlock as if he were an irksome fly she longed to swat.

"Is he telling the truth?" Sebastian demanded, watching her intently.

Emma nodded curtly. "He is. This time."

Sebastian gripped the arms of Masque's chair with his hands and lowered his face so that they were eye-to-eye. Breathing slowly, he absorbed energy from the room, his body converting it into superhuman strength. "If you do not know his name, boy, what do you know? Think now. What reason can you give me not to rip you limp from limp on the spot?"

Emma rolled her eyes. Sebastian would never rip someone limp from limp; he would not run the risk of getting blood on his tie. Masque, however, thought he was being deadly serious.

"H-he said he n-n-needed a physic," he stammered, his eyes half-closed. "He j-just kept s-s-sayin' he needed a physic. He was pretty fucked up. Here." He tapped his forehead meaningfully. "Like he found out some pretty fucked up shit."

"And did you tell him where to find a physic?" Sebastian pursued in fearsome tones.

Masque nodded meekly. "Yeah. I did."

"Who? Where? Tell me, boy!"

"Well, I don't exactly have one on speed dial," retorted the Morlock sarcastically. Slowly Sebastian wrapped his fingers around Masque's wrist, crushing his bones to powder. Masque screamed in agony and twisted madly Sebastian's iron-like grip. Sebastian let him go. Holding on much longer would have separated Masque's hand from his arm.

"_Who?_"

Masque was bent-doubled over his injured limp, sobbing in pain. "I t-told him a friend of mine back in New York could, you know, find people," he gasped.

"Find people?" Emma repeated suspiciously. "Are you referring to Charles Xavier and Cerebro?"

Masque looked offended. "Fuck no! I'm talkin' 'bout one of us. A Morlock. Caliban's his name. He can find Mutants anywhere."

"And did Caliban tell him where he might find a physic?" Emma quizzed.

He scowled. "Why don't you ask him?"

Emma smiled. "Oh, I shall." She lapsed into silence, one eye on the door. Seconds later it opened and the Thomas twins came striding into the room, ordered telepathically by Emma. She spared the Morlock a pitiless glance. "Kill him."

"NO!" screamed Masque. "NO! NO!" He writhed like an eel in the Thomas twins' stone grip, pressing his deadly hands against their faces – but to no avail. The twins' stone skin rendered his powers useless. Sobbing, he screeched at Emma as they dragged him from the room. "You said you'd take me back to the sewers! You said you'd take me back!"

"I did," Emma agreed sweetly, waving goodbye. "But I never specified in what condition."

"_NOOOOO!_"

The door swung shut and Masque's pleading screams were no more.

Sebastian gave little chuckle. "That went well."

"Indeed," Emma concurred, a raging triumph gleaming in her icy eyes. She raised her glass in a toast and delicately sipped the whiskey. Sebastian followed suit. Most of the ice had since melted, diluting the alcohol. He sighed and took a long draft. The effect was instantaneous. Sebastian Shaw's heart stopped before he hit the floor. The glass fell from his limp fingers and cracked cleanly in two, spewing amber liquid over the creamy carpet.

A redheaded youth stepped inside the office and picked up the two halves. "That was rather ingenious," she complimented, "having the poison activate when the ice melted. Here … Madam President." She held out the glass halves. Emma took the glass from her mutual friend, the sharp edges useless against her diamond skin. Then she handed her back one half.

"And here's to you, and our future together."

"The future," Wanda echoed, checking her perfect reflection in the cracked glass.

* * *

OK, so what did people think of chapter two? Sorry there's no Rogue in this chapter but the next one's ALL her so hang on in there, me hearties! Yarr!

If you liked the chapter, review! If you liked my pirate impression, review twice! LOL

_Reviews. Much love to all those who reviewed the previous chapter_

_**Prince Cl0ud9**_, _**SheWhoDreamsByDarkness-x**_, _**hotbritt5000**_, _**KatSin**_, _**annitari the writer**_, _**AlexTWolfe**_, _**DarkFantasy16**_, _**Genie05 the second**_, _**coup fatal**_, _**BizarreLemon**_, _**summergirlforever**_

Cheers, Plonksie

PS: I'm running a poll on my profile in regards to a new fic I'm drafting out. Please visit it, especially if you're a Kyro fan


	4. Chapter Three

_Beta'd by **WandaW**_

**

* * *

Glass**

Chapter Three – In Which We Become Acquainted With Sunshine Harry's Pancake Emporium, The Bronx, NYC

_  
The first glass is for myself, the second for my friends, the third for good humour, and the forth for my enemies.__  
_William Temple

.

_

* * *

"This is all going to end in tears Rogue," Bobby replied hotly. "I'm telling you, come home."_

_Again, static. Then she hung up. Ashen-faced, Bobby slipped the cell back into his pocket. Her prior displeasure at her boyfriend forgotten, Kitty touched his arm. "Bobby?" she asked. "What did she say?"_

_"She said do you always do what you're told."_

* * *

Rogue's favourite day of the week was Wednesday, for every Wednesday at nine-thirty Ol' Sunshine Harry himself came into Sunshine Harry's Pancake Emporium, shuffled across the fluorescent linoleum and eased himself down into his favourite booth with a sigh. And every Wednesday Rogue would give him exactly five minutes to read the menu before popping over, her regulation tennis shoes squeaking on the linoleum. All of the other waitresses were happy to leave Ol' Harry to Rogue; as far as they were concerned, the man they slaved forfrom dawn 'til dusk was about as far from sunshine as it is possible to be. However, Rogue liked him. He reminded her of Logan: gruff on the outside, but with an inner softness.

"Hey, sunshine," she greeted him cheerfully, sliding into the seat opposite, her pencil poised for his order. "What can Ah get ya for?"

Harry glared at her through his coke-bottle glasses. "This," he snapped, jabbing his finger at the menu. Rogue scribbled it down.

"Pancakes and rib-eye steak. Excellent choice."

"Whaddaya mean _excellent_?" demanded Harry. "It's what I always get. Excellent don't enter into it."

Rogue smiled. "Sure, Harry. Anything else?"

"Orange juice."

"OJ," Rogue repeated, writing it down on her pad. She needn't have bothered – Ol' Harry always ordered the same thing – but she wanted to.

"With no ice."

"With no ice." Rogue jumped to her feet. "Ya just hold tight there sunshine, and Ah'll be back with ya dinner 'fore ya can say Sunshine Harry's Pancake Emporium."

"Sunshine Harry's Pancake Emporium," Harry growled, but a smile tugged at the corners of his wrinkly old mouth. Rogue peered down at him, her brow furrowed in mock surprise.

"Was that a _smile_ Ah saw there, Harry? Ya smilin' at me?"

"No," insisted Harry sourly. He waved her away. "Now go get me my food like a good waitress. Smiling. Hmpf. Ol' Harry don't smile."

Rogue winked. "Sure, Harry." She skipped back to the kitchen, catching a glance at her reflection in the window as she passed. A young woman in a pink waitress' uniform and matching pink ribbons in her dark hair smiled back at her. Rogue wore a long-sleeved t-shirt under her shift to cover her arms and transparent panty hose. She was taking no chances this time. She got away with wearing mittens too, as it was nearing the end of November and a cruel wind whipped in from the Hudson River.

"Can Ah have Harry's order, please, Maxxie?" she called to the chef.

"Sure thing, honey," he yelled back over the sizzling of burgers. Maxxie, his chef's hat askew, appeared through the steam holding aloft a laden plate. His eyes swept Rogue up and down, and he winked appreciatively. "Oohh, sister, aren't you lookin' so pretty in pink."

Rogue rolled her eyes, relieving him of the plate and sliding it onto a pink tray. "Maxxie, ain't ya supposed tah be gay?"

"Oh yeah," Maxxie conceded glumly. "Yeah. I am."

"Ya don't sound very convinced tah me," Rogue teased, her eyebrows raised.

"It's you, babycakes. The sight'a you's enough to turn any gay man straight."

"Quit it," Rogue giggled bashfully. "Ya makin' me blush … And Ah need Harry's OJ too."

"With no ice?" Maxxie guessed, fetching the juice from the fridge and pouring it into a glass.

"With no ice," Rogue confirmed. "See ya, sugah."

"Oh, I will," Maxxie punned, watching her sashay from the kitchen with a keen eye. "Work it, sister!" he catcalled after her. "Work that pink!" With her tray balanced on the palm of her hand, Rogue pushed the door open with her foot and strode out across the floor to where Harry sat doing his crossword.

"Here we are!" Rogue said brightly, setting down his plate and glass. "How's the crossword goin' sugah?"

"Bad," Harry complained. He had everything but seven slots filled in careful block capitals

"Want me tah take a peek?"

"No." He shoved the newspaper across the Formica table to Rogue. Rogue stowed her pencil behind her ear for safekeeping and scrutinised the crossword, underlining the clues with her pink fingernails.

"Hmmm." She sat down on the edge of the seat, absently biting her lip in concentration, eyeing up seventeen down, muttering the clue to herself, "_It's Hell in the shade_". Ever since she had offered to help Harry with his crossword on her first Wednesday night she had started doing them daily on the bus ride home and knew a fair few little tricks. She was much better than Bobby had ever been when they had done them together back at the mansion, but she was nowhere near as good as John; he had been able to complete them in a matter of minutes. Whenever she asked him how he did them so fast or how he got them all right, he avoided answering, choosing to shrug nonchalantly and say that any idiot could do them.

"Guess that makes ya an idiot, Johnny," she would giggle, poking him.

John, composed as ever, would delicately raise a brow.

"_It's Hell in the shade_," Rogue murmured, weighing each word carefully. "_It's Hell in the shade__._"

"Five letters," Harry informed her. "Middle letter D."

Rogue jiggled her foot up and down, repeating the clue in her head. "_It's Hell in the shade_ … five letters … middle letter D." And it came to her. "_Hades!_" she exclaimed triumphantly, filling it in with her pencil. "It's an anagram. Shade – Hades. Hades is another word for Hell."

"I could've got that," Harry grumbled.

Rogue smiled, getting back to her feet. "O' course ya could've, Harry. Ya're the crossword master."

Another half-smile. "I suppose I am."

"Can Ah get ya anything else?"

"No! I haven't eaten my pancakes yet." Harry heaved a great sigh and shooed Rogue away from his table. "Now go away and annoy someone else."

"Sure, sunshine."

"And don't call me sunshine!"

"Sure, sunshine." Rogue winked and walked away, scanning the diner for new customers. There were none in her booths.

"Psst! Rogue!" Rogue spun around at the sound of her name. Michelle O'Malley scuttled towards her, her pink uniform clashing awfully with her carrot-red hair. Rogue looked inquiringly at her friend and Michelle pointed over to the most secluded booth. "A lady just came into my section asking for you."

Rogue frowned. "For me?"

"Yeah."

"Why didn't ya tell her that if she's sittin' in yahr section yah're gonna be her waitress, and if she don't like it, she can move her lazy ass." As much as Rogue hated finicky customers, she hated impolite ones more. Her parents had brought her up as well-mannered girl and nothing annoyed her more than people who disrespected the hard work of others.

"Uh-uh. This lady totally creeped me out." Michelle gave Rogue a push in the lower back. "She asks for you, she gets you."

Rogue snorted. "We'll see about that." Straightening, she trod purposely over to the booth Michelle had pointed at. Two men and a woman sat there. The two men were huge beyond belief – more like mountains dressed in Men In Black style suits that humans – but the woman, small, slender and dressed all in white, was who caught your attention and held it. Her cold blue eyes seemed to radiate a sense of power and authority, glinting like chips of ice in her pale face. Not as certain as she had been two minutes ago, Rogue cleared her throat. "Hey ya'll. Ah'm afraid this table is in Michelle's section, so she's gonna be ya'll's waitress for tahnight, okay? If ya'll'd like someone else, ya can move tah their section. That's how we do things here. Ah'll bring ya'll some menus and then Michelle'll come and take yahr orders," she finished strongly with a false smile.

The woman titled her head a fraction of an inch and gazed coolly up at Rogue. "Sit down, Marie. I did not come all this way for two dollar's worth of greasy pancakes."

Rogue swallowed but held her own. "Well, if ya'll didn't come for the food, then Ah'm gonna hafta ask ya tah give up yahr seats tah payin' customers."

One of the men pulled three crisp hundred-dollar bills from his jacket pocket and laid them down on the table. "Now we're paying customers."

"Ah can't accept that," Rogue told him firmly. "But ya can order somethin' off the menu, if ya'd like."

The second man cracked his knuckles loudly and the white woman smiled. "Sit down, Marie," she repeated in a sugary voice that did not suit her.

"Ah-Ah can't do that," Rogue said, faltering. How did this woman know her name? Or where she worked? What was going on? "Ah'm still on shift. Maybe when Ah get off we might be able tah … talk." _No way! I'm going to run for the back now, call Logan and then get away from this psycho-bitch ASAFP! _

The white woman raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Psycho-bitch?"

Rogue sat down. There were a lot of things in this life that she didn't know, but she knew, sure as eggs is eggs, that messing with telepaths was not a good idea.

"Excellent," purred the physic. The two men got up and relocated themselves, one sitting in the booth to the left and the other to the right.

"What do ya want from me?" Rogue asked, trying to keep her voice level.

"It is not want _I _want from you, but what you want from _me_ that is the question," replied the physic cryptically.

"Ah don't want anythin' from ya," Rogue protested. "Ah don't know ya."

The physic laughed. It sounded like icicles breaking. She fixed Rogue a penetrating stare with her frosty eyes. "Oh, how rude of me. I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Emma Frost." She did not offer Rogue her hand. "And you are Annamarie D'Ancanto, more commonly known as Rogue." Emma smiled. It was a moment of ultimate ironies – a black widow trapped in the body of a white witch. "Now that we are friends, perhaps you will listen to what I have to say."

"We're not friends," Rogue corrected waspishly. "And get outtta mah head. Please."

"Very well. The supposed Cure failed two months ago. By now all those inoculated with it will have regained their powers–– "

"No disrespect, Mrs. Frost," Rogue interrupted. "But Ah already know that." She waved her mitten-clad hands in front of Emma's nose.

"Yes … An unfortunate incident involving a less-than sober fraternity boy and your thigh, if I remember correctly?" Emma revealed dispassionately.

Rogue glared at her head. "If ya remember? Ya weren't there. _Ah_ remembered and ya went an' found it in mah head."

"True, true," Emma confessed. "But no matter."

"Yes, it does matter," Rogue exclaimed angrily. "It's mah head and Ah don't want ya in there. It's bad enough that Ah've got some stupid frat boy runnin' around tryin' tah give me tips on how tah dress without some psycho physic lady diggin' up dirt too! If ya ain't got the common decency tah respect mah privacy, well then Ah think this conversation is over." And with a contemptuous _hmpf_, Rogue got to her feet.

"Sit down, Marie," Emma drawled impatiently.

"It's _Rogue_," Rogue corrected as she took her seat.

"Excellent. Now, will you listen this time?" Rogue nodded sullenly, feeling like a child who's been reprised from the naughty corner in Kindergarten. "As I said before, the Cure has returned. Doubtlessly you heard that on the news before you experienced it for yourself. However, I am in possession of some knowledge that has not worked its way on to CNN. Mutants of a higher-level Class Three and above not only experienced a return of their powers, but an increase in their potency and …" Emma took a breath, dragging out the suspense. Rogue yawned widely and obviously, praying that her grandmamma could not see her. "Controllability."

Rogue froze.

"_Controllability_," she choked in a hallowed whisper. "Did ya say …?"

Emma nodded. "I did. I have come here to offer you my help in learning to control your powers. You have an exceptional gift, Rogue. Imagine what you could do if you put it to good use. The possibilities are practically infinite."

"Really?" Rogue breathed. For a moment she was floating on a cloud of euphoria. She would be able to touch people without having to give up her Mutation. She could train up and then go back to the mansion and become an X-Man. She imagined the look on Bobby's face when she greeted him with a skin-on-skin handshake. If only there was someone around she could kiss … That would be bound to make him jealous.

Then a storm of suspicion brought her crashing back to earth. She frowned at Emma. "Why are ya tellin' me this?" she asked warily.

"Did I not make myself perfectly clear? I want to help you."

This only made Rogue more sceptical. "Why?" she demanded as politely as she could.

"Because I believe you have skills worth developing," Emma answered. Rogue sighed. _Translation: I want to use you. _

"And why should I let ya develop mah skills? Why shouldn't Ah go back to–– "

"The X-Men?" Emma cut across her. She laughed. "Come now, Rogue. Let us be frank here. Your friends – if you could call them that – at Xavier's have forgotten about you. How long has it been since they called you?"

Rogue scowled, her jaw set. But then she stopped. How long had it been? A week? Two weeks? Three weeks? Bobby still texted her everyday but she was sure his cell was programmed to do it automatically. Even Kitty and Logan had stopped checking in with her. "None of yahr business," she answered fiercely. "And for the last time, stay outta mah head."

Emma smiled in a horribly knowing fashion. "It hurts, doesn't it?" she said quietly, her voice full of empathy. "Abandonment. Trust me, Rogue. I know what I'm talking about."

"And so do Ah," Rogue snapped. "Ah'm sorry, but Ah'm not interested. Now, if ya'll excuse me, Ah've gotta do mah job. Don't wait around." And she jumped to her feet and flounced off, her tennis shoes squeaking on the linoleum as she went. Barging straight through the door, she hurried into the tiny locker room. Fumbling with the code of her combination lock, she wrenched open her locker. In the lopsided mirror stuck to the interior door she saw a pretty girl with angry red patches on her pale cheeks and disquiet in her dark eyes. Ignoring her reflection, Rogue snatched up her cell phone. As always, she had one unread message. She deleted it and dialled Logan's number.

"Hey, Logan," she chirped as soon as his gruff voice sounded at the other end. It felt so good to hear his voice. "It's Rogue."

"Oh, hey, Kid," Logan forced out between gasps of laughter. In the background, Rogue could hear shouts of mirth and loud music and what sounded unmistakably like Jubilee and Kitty doing their karaoke version of _Don't Impress Me Much_. Suddenly Rogue felt a lump form at the back of her throat. That had been their song, the three of them. By the sounds of things, Jubes and Kitty were doing fine without her. "Um – can I call ya back?" Logan asked quickly. "Kinda a bad time."

Rogue snapped her phone shut and threw it back into her locker. She slammed the door shut. There was a tinkling, cracking noise. The mirror had broken. Rogue sighed and let go of the door. It swung open forlornly and pieces of broken mirror tumbled to the floor. Stooping, she picked up the pieces and carried them over to the wastepaper basket. Her splintered face glinted back at her from amidst the dust bunnies and empty lip gloss tubes.

"Rogue? Honey? Whatcha doing?" It was Stacey, the clucking mother hen of their little family at Sunshine Harry's. Rogue had known her for almost three months now and liked her very much. "You still got three hours on your shift and you can't spend 'em in here."

"Ah know," Rogue said morosely, nudging the trash with her foot. "Ah know. Ah'm comin'."

"Well, come then. Don't just stand there, honey. The answer to your problem ain't in that trash can."

A weak smile wobbled on Rogue's lips. "How'd ya know?"

"'Cause I've spent enough time looking. Now let's go … And pull up your top," Stacey added in the disapproving tone all mothers employed when they thought their daughters were dressed inappropriately. "Your boobs're gonna fall out."

Rogue giggled. As she emerged back onto the floor with Stacey, she saw Emma Frost and her cronies were still waiting. In a split second, Rogue made up her mind. Emma Frost's hard face split into a smile as Rogue approached. "Excellent."

Rogue frowned crossly. "Ah haven't said anythin' yet."

Emma just smiled. "I can wait for you to finish your shift, or we can leave now."

"Ah still haven't said anything," Rogue grounded out.

Emma eyed the grimy Formica tabletop with distaste. "Personally, I think we should have left a long time ago. This place is alive with the filth."

"Well, then, why don't you leave?" demanded a voice from behind Rogue. Michelle had finally plucked up her courage to confront her sour customers.

Emma Frost swept regally to her feet, sending Michelle such a condescending look that the poor girl shrank a good inch in height. "I think I shall," she sniffed. Her bodyguards rose up from the adjoining booths like huge clothed gorillas. Emma caught Rogue's eyes for a long moment. "And if you are half as smart as I think you are, you will follow me." And without a backward glance, the trio strode from the diner and out into the punishing night.

"Good riddance to bad rubbish," Michelle declared. She turned to Rogue, curiosity painted all over her chipmunk-esque features. "Why did she want with you Rogue? Rogue? _Rogue?_"

Rogue did not answer, but sprinted to the locker room, ripping open her locker and emptying all her belongings into her old schoolbag.

"Where are you going?" Michelle gasped, evidently shocked. "You can't possibly be thinking of going with _her_, can you?"

"Ah ain't thinkin', 'Chelle. Ah'm _doin'_."

"What if she's dangerous, Rogue?" Michelle countered desperately.

Rogue snorted. Of course she was dangerous. "Ah can take care o' myself." Swinging her bag onto her back, she ran from the room, Michelle at her heels.

"But I'll miss you," wept the redhead despondently. "Who else'll tell me to stand up for myself when scary bitches with humongous bodyguards come in?"

Rogue paused for a second and pulled Michelle into an awkward one-armed hug. "And Ah'll miss ya too … Maxxie!" she yelled as she passed the kitchen. "Ah'm leavin'. Bye!"

"Yeah, okay," came Maxxie's voice from amidst the clatter of pots and pans and the hiss of steam. "Wait – _What?_"

"She's leaving," Michelle told him mournfully. "And she said _bye_."

"_Why?_" Maxxie wailed.

Rogue gave him the one-armed hug treatment. "Sorry, Maxxie. Long story. Gotta go."

"Kiss?" Maxxie pressed hopefully.

Rogue snorted. "Get real, Max."

"Call me."

"Maybe." She rushed out into the main diner and over to Ol' Harry's booth. She couldn't leave without thanking Harry. "Sorry, Harry," she panted. "But somethin's come up and Ah gotta go. Ah won't see ya again and Ah wanted tah say goodbye."

Harry blinked at her from behind his enormous coke-bottle spectacles. "You're leaving?"

Rogue nodded. "Uh-huh. Sorry."

"Now?"

"Now."

Harry pursed his lips. "Three across. _Blank comes once in a lifetime, perhaps knocking_ … eleven letters. Last letter Y."

Rogue answered instantly. "Opportunity."

"Well, then, what are you waiting for?" Ol' Harry dropped her a wink. "Go."

Swooping down, Rogue kissed the top of his bald head. As her skin touched his she felt no pull, though it might have been because their contact was so brief. "Thank ya. Thank ya."

"I said go," Harry flustered grouchily. "Not kiss me. The youth of today. Disgrace, the lot of them!" With one last wave, Rogue tore from the diner at top speed. Parked right outside the door was a sleek black Mercedes. The door was thrust open and one of bodyguards ordered her to get in.

"I told you she was smart girl," Emma Frost remarked to the red-haired girl sitting beside her. The redhead snorted disdainfully, tossing her magnificent curls over her shoulder.

Rogue glared at her. "Do ya have a problem?"

The redhead shot her an appraisingly look, sneering, "Yes. Yes, I have a problem with handing out second chances to traitors."

Overcome with rage, Rogue ripped off her glove and slapped Wanda. The result was instantaneous. Rogue felt a pull the second her skin came in contact with Wanda's, twice as powerful as anything she had experienced before. She was falling, falling – drowning in space and time, swimming in Wanda's veins, dancing through her memories.

_She was eight years old. It was raining. The name on the gravestone read Marya Maximoff. A strange man in a long coat and a fedora hat took her by the hand and led her to his helicopter. A green man winked at her from the cockpit and a woman with blue skin and red hair took her wet coat. Her brother followed. He always followed … She was thirteen. She was the Scarlet Witch. Her father sat across the chessboard from her, frowning as Wanda prodded her queen forward. His king toppled over and rolled off the table. She had won again. She always won, in the end … She was seventeen, lying in a tent, running her fingers through his hair. His chest rose and fell as he slept, his fingers curled tight around the little silver lighter, unaware of the similar grip he had on Wanda's heart. How cruel a word it was,_ unaware. _Little he knows, little he cares––_

"STOP!"

Green light exploded before Rogue's eyes, burning her vision. She fell backwards and bounced off the leather. Her fingertips were smoking and her whole body hurt. It was like she had received an electric shock – like she had touched a livewire and been unable to let go. Rogue had never felt anything like this before. Emma Frost was right. Her powers had strengthened.

Wanda raised her head. She was deathly pale, the purple lines slowly fading from her face, her chest heaving. But, unlike Rogue, she was in control. Her eyes were glowing green and crackling with power.

"I'll kill you for that, bitch," she hissed, her hands curling inwards like witch's claws, balls of magic cradled in each palm.

"You'll do nothing of the sort, Wanda," Emma Frost said coolly. "There is a time and place for petty covetousness, and this is not it. You will behave in a courteous manner towards our new friend. At least in my company." Wanda's eyes flashed dangerously, but she said nothing. Extinguishing the hex bolts, she turned to gaze out the window into the black night, her balled fists resting in her lap. They still glowed, a dormant volcano. "As for you, Rogue," Emma continued in the same cold voice. "You catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Remember that."

Rogue felt a need to defend her actions "She started it," she protested petulantly. Wanda snorted from her corner. Rogue stuck her tongue out at her. Emma Frost cleared her throat.

"As you can clearly see, your powers are now draining your opponent's essence at a much accelerated rate. It is my belief that this is not the only new advantage– "

_Advantage? Was this woman insane?_

_Er, yeah_, said psyche Frat Boy.

When I want your opinion, Rogue growled, I'll ask for it.

_Gotcha. _

Emma raised her eyebrows, a smile hovering around her mouth. "May I continue, or would you rather converse with your little friend?"

"Oh." Rogue found herself blushing. "Continue. Please."

"An accelerated rate of absorption may only be the start of your new abilities," Emma declared, with as much pomp and circumstance as if she had just announced Rogue as the Supreme Ruler of the Universe.

Rogue shook her head. "Nuh-uh. Ah don't want _new_ abilities. Ah'm havin' enough trouble as it is with the old one. What Ah want is control. That's all Ah want."

Emma Frost smiled. "That's all you want _now_."

Telepathically ordered by his boss, the bodyguard uncorked a bottle of champagne from the limousine's mini-bar and filled four glasses with the pale gold liquid.

"To the Hellfire Club," Emma proposed, raising her glass. "To the future. And to Rogue."

Rogue dropped her eyes, blushing a little, but she did not need to look up to feel Wanda's burning gaze as she glared at her over the rim of her glass.

* * *

More Rogue, as promised. Hope you enjoyed it! Leave a review!

I think I replied to all the reviews personally, but here's a another thanks, just coz you guys deserve it: _**parris411**_,_ **KatSin**_, _**RogueNya**_, **_Prince cl0ud9_**, _**coup fatal **_

Cheers, Plonksie.


	5. Chapter Four

Thank you all for the amazing feedback from the last chapter. Reviews really make people want to write more and more often.

_Beta'__d by **WandaW**_

* * *

**Glass**

Chapter Four – In Which Numerous Chat-Up Lines Of A Dubious Nature Are Used On Scheming Girls

_  
The trick to juggling is determining which balls are made of rubber and which ones are made of glass_  
(Unknown)

.

* * *

_Emma Frost caught Rogue's eyes for a long moment. _"_If you are half as smart as I think you are, you will come with me._"

_…_

_Harry pursed his lips. _"_Three across. C_omes once in a lifetime, perhaps knocking… eleven letters. Last letter Y."

_Rogue answered instantly. _"_Opportunity._"

"_Well, then, what are you waiting for?_"_ Ol' Harry dropped her a wink. _"_Go._"

* * *

(_Louisiana_)

Pausing to make sure her new wig was perfectly positioned, Wanda flashed her fake ID to the fat guard snoring in the security booth by the asylum's gates. "I'm the new nurse," she said, knocking on the glass to wake him up. " May-Sue Simms' replacement. Can you buzz me through?" With a loud grunt, the guard complied. The heavy iron gates swung open and Wanda walked right on in. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and called her father. "I'm in." She spoke the words and hung up. Then she called Emma Frost and said the exact same thing.

"Excellent," Emma purred. Wanda smirked. She _was_ excellent.

Her job was simple. Get in, get the guy, get out – preferably as soon as possible. Back-up was available, if necessary, though Wanda doubted it would be. This was a mental asylum, not Fort Knox. She would scout about first, prying and poking for cracks in what was promising to be very limited security system. Then, when the time was right, she would call the Brotherhood and they would finish the job. Or perhaps she would call the Hellfire Club. Wanda, you see, was a winner. She did not lose. She did not come second. She won. It did not matter what was at stake: a simple game of tic-tac-toe with her hapless brother or the future of mankind. She always won. In fact, Wanda liked winning so much she was willing to play on both sides of the fence to assure herself a place on the victorious team when the final card was dealt. So when she had discovered that their man was a patient in an old asylum an hour outside of New Orleans, she had told both the Hellfire club and the Brotherhood. Wanda didn't see a problem with her actions. Winning, after all, was winning, and someone had to do it, so why shouldn't it be her?

Wanda smiled and demurred her way through the morning's formalities – being introduced to the other staff, assigned a locker, taught how to work the ancient coffee machine and so on – playing out her new role with practised precision until finally she was dispatched to meet her charges. Her tennis shoes squeaked against the polished wood as she followed her new partner, a forty-year-old single woman named Elvis Baxter, down through the old oak-panelled hallways. They descended a staircase and found their way barred by a heavy steel door set with a palm-scanner and guarded by men in military uniform and holding large guns. Wanda frowned. Doors like these belonged in nuclear missile silos, not the basements of old colonial houses. Doors like these also made escape irritatingly complicated.

The soldiers said nothing as they swiped Wanda and Elvis's access cards through a small hand-held computer. After a few minutes fiddling, they were deemed acceptable and the door slid open with a hiss. They walked down a white-tiled corridor lined with locked doors into a sort of control room. Sitting in front of a bank of screens and monitors was another soldier. His gun lay abandoned on an empty chair and he looked very bored.

"Mornin' Lieutenant," Elvis cooed.

The Lieutenant yawned widely in return. Then he noticed Wanda. "Who's ya friend, Ellie?" he demanded, smoothening down his shirt and jumping to his feet. Elvis made the necessary introductions while Wanda smiled like the good little girl she was pretending to be. The Lieutenant cleared his throat and held out his hand to Wanda. "First Lieutenant Frederic Lee Wilson at ya service, Missy … Ya daddy must'a been a terrorist, 'cause he gone done made a bomb when he made ya."

Another woman might have vomited at his words, but Wanda resisted the urge. In her mind Freddie Lee meant one thing: potential. Now that the security had jumped from non-existent to Pentagon-standard, she would need inside help, and she was sure that Ol' Freddie Lee would be a most willing accomplice. She allowed Freddie Lee to kiss her hand, forcing herself to blush as he did so. "Later, Nurse Hotlips," he grinned as he tapped buttons, opening another heavy steel door.

The sudden cold hit Wanda like ton of bricks. Shivering, she hugged her arms to her chest. She felt like she had just stepped into a freezer.

"Why it is so cold?" she asked.

"Ah don't know," Elvis shrugged. Wanda was under the impression that there was a lot that Elvis Baxter didn't know. She didn't push the matter and followed Elvis along a short white-tiled corridor ending in a single cell. Instead of a door, the cell was fronted with an inch-thick pane of glass. It was completely empty: no chair, no bed, no inmate. Elvis showed her card to yet another machine-gun-hugging soldier, who played with a complicated electronic gizmo that caused a portion of the glass wall to retract into the wall. Shivering with the cold, Wanda stepped through the glass into the cell. The floor tiles were spongy. Elvis knocked one of the wall tiles with her hand. "Completely fireproof," she said. "And so's ya uniform, so don't worry, hun. Just don't wear too much hairspray. Ya heard what happened tah May-Sue."

Wanda nodded. She hadn't seen any pictures, but according to staff gossip the doctors had been able to save May-Sue's eye, though her face was beyond repair.

"Where's the patient?" she asked, struggling to keep anticipation from leaking into her voice. After months of searching they had finally found him. On the other side of a cell was another door. Was he behind there? And why were they holding him down here on his own, guarded by the US reserves and kept in the freezing cold?

"With Dr. Nex." The second door open and a woman appeared. A severely starched white cap sat perched on her head like a crown and she wielded a clipboard. "I am Nurse Mercy Fletcher," she said, her voice precise and soft. "This is my ward. You must be Simms' replacement." She held out her hand to Wanda.

"Yes, ma'am," Wanda nodded, reluctantly taking Nurse Fletcher's hand. Her hand was cold and slimy, just like her eyes. Wanda let go quickly.

"Dr. Nex would like a nurse present while he treats patient 24601," Nurse Fletcher said, never taking her eyes off Wanda's.

"I'll go be present, then," Wanda volunteered.

"Yes. I think you ought to. Nurse Baxter, come with me." Nurse Fletcher passed Wanda the clipboard and continued down the corridor. Glad to see the back of her, Wanda tried the second door and found it locked. Tentatively she knocked on it. It opened inwards, revealing a soldier cradling a semi-automatic machine gun. His eyes took in Wanda's ID badge and he nodded her inside, shutting the door quickly behind her.

She was in a small fireproof cube, the only furniture being a table and chair, also flameproof. Armed guards stood by the door. The patient sat hunched over the table, his back to Wanda, captive in a straightjacket with his hands fixed behind his back. He wore flannel pants and his feet were bare, his ankles shackled to the chair legs. In a moment of charity they had spared him the indignity of a shaved head, but his hair grew unkempt and greasy, riddled with fading peroxide, too long and obscuring his face. A picture of pathos, of wretchedness, of dulled gold and exiled kings and songs of old glories forgotten by children too busy playing with their X-Boxes.

Dr. Gabriel Nex stepped forward. Angel by name, angel by nature, he was dressed in a spotless white coat. An albino, his hair and skin were the same shade of nothing so that he blended in with the tiles. Only his eyes had any colour. They were a pale watery pink and the irises were red. He smiled at Wanda with yellow teeth and came to stand behind the patient. He stroked his hair. "You do know why you are here, don't you, my friend?" said Dr. Nex with chilling compassion. The patient said and did nothing, his shadowed eyes unmoved. "We all come from a factory, you see. And, sometimes, the factory makes bad machines that don't work. Now, the bad machines don't know they are bad machines, but the people at the factory know. We know which of the machines don't work. And you, my friend, are a bad machine.

"But fear not, my friend," Dr. Nex rejoiced, still stroking the patient's hair, cooing in his ear. "This is where we repair bad machines, and we shall repair you too. We shall take you apart, piece by piece, lay out all the nuts and bolts and screws and little bits of wire. We will examine them and then we will be able to discover what made you a bad machine, and how to prevent this defect from reoccurring and infecting all the good machines."

The patient did nothing, said nothing, moved not an inch. Wanda wondered what kind of drugs they had him on.

"Well what do you say, my friend? Why don't you talk with us? We wish to talk with you very much." Dr. Nex heaved a sigh. "Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps tomorrow you will be in a more talkative mood, my friend." He turned to the guards. "Take the patient back to his cell."

Then, suddenly, the patient lurched forward in his chair. His head cracked off the table edge. Blood splashed the tabletop, dripping down onto the startling white floor. He sat up straight. And did it again. And again, and again, and again, and again-again-again-aga––

"Restrain the patient!" Dr. Nex ordered sharply. "Restrain him!"

The two soldiers snapped into action. They grabbed the patient by the shoulders, tipping him backwards over the back of his chair and onto the floor. He bounced off the fireproof tiles and writhed like an eel, hissing and spitting, blood gushing from the split across his forehead.

This, Wanda thought, this desperate fight, the useless fight – this surely was madness. And it was a sorry sight.

Blood splattered the walls, floor, everywhere, rebelliously red against the white. Wanda hovered behind the soldiers, ready to dress the cut once the patient was subdued.

"Hold him still," Dr. Nex commanded. "Do not let him hurt himself. We need him undamaged."

"We're tryin'," panted the soldier. The patient fought tooth and nail, scrabbling blindly, flopping about in a pool of his own blood like a fish out of water. "It's fuckin' har–– AH!"

He yelled in pain and fell back, clutching his hand. Something was bubbling; popping and frothing like steaming water. The smell of burning flesh burned the back of Wanda's throat.

The blood oozing out of the patient's head was boiling.

"Dear God," breathed Dr. Nex. "Sedate him!" he barked. "Nurse! Sedate him now!"

The leather straps binding the patient's feet to the chair were smoking.

"Sedate him, I say! Do it! Do it now!"

Wanda prepped the emergency needle and the second soldier forced the patient onto his back, holding him down while Wanda jammed the needle into his neck. Instantly he went limp. "Turn him over," Wanda whispered, shaken. "I need to bandage the cut." The soldier grunted and flipped the body over like a ragdoll. Wanda gently brushed back the hair the better to see the wound. Despite her gloves, touching his flesh was like touching hot coals.

She gasped.

Even with his face marred with blood Wanda recognised him. She would have known his face anywhere, been able to pick it out from a crowd of millions. It was the face she saw every time she closed her eyes.

The words slipped from her mouth before she could stop them.

"Pyro?"

He said nothing. Did nothing. Noticed nothing. His blank eyes slid right over her without igniting a spark of identification. It was as if they have never met at all.

"Pyro. It's me. Wanda. Your … friend." _Friend _hardly covered it. After sex, Pyro had invariably fallen asleep. Wanda had fallen in love. It hadn't really bothered her that much at the time. Love. True, she had felt lighter than air when he smirked at her behind her father's back, _later_ on his lips, and it had given her a reason to hate the stupid Southern girl with the white strips in her hair, the one whose name he whispered, unaware, in his sleep – But, other than that, love had done nothing for Wanda. She had felt nothing. Until now.

She was pleading with him, down on her knees. "Don't you remember me?"

An awful grin split Pyro's face in two. His teeth were bloody.

"_Pyro?_"

Pyro shook his head and his eyes rolled to white.

.

**xXxXxXxXxXx**

.

Every so often Emma Frost wished that Sebastian were still alive. Now that she was boss, she had no one to brag to, no one to congratulate her on a job well done, no one to bury their jealousy and awe of her powers with gruff praise. She wondered vaguely what Sebastian would have said about her conquering of the Rogue girl. What would have pleased him most? Her manipulation of the girl's vulnerable emotional plain, resulting in her rash decision to jump aboard? Or her pitting her against the Maximoff slut to prevent them presenting a united front and, maybe, someday, overthrowing Emma herself? On the whole, she thought that Sebastian would have been most impressed. After all, she was Emma Frost, the White Queen, President of the Hellfire Club. Impressive was her middle name.

.

**xXxXxXxXxXx**

.

(_New York City – Three Months Later_)

The distant music of the St. Patrick's Day parade could be heard as Rogue hurried through a packed Central Park. It was glorious day in mid-March; the sun, for once, was shining and everyone was out enjoying the spring sunshine. Everyone except Rogue. Dressed suitably in a knee-length green dress under a white wrap-around shirt, she took a shortcut across an expanse of lawn populated with little clusters of students all embracing their new-found Irishness with little brown paper bags and take-out pizzas. She had an appointment with Emma Frost at eleven o'clock. It was ten-to already, and she was at least a half an hour away from her destination. Exhausted from yesterday's intense training session, she had slept right through her alarm clock and woke up with only an hour to make her appointment. Unflustered, Rogue had taken her time getting dressed. It was only a twenty-minute ride on the Subway, after all, and one did not show up for lunch with the President of the Hellfire Club looking like they've just rolled out of bed. But, then again, one did not show up twenty minutes later, either. Rogue figured it was just her luck that, on this particular day, due to some minor electrical disturbance, the subway wasn't working. At all. And, because of the parade, a taxi would have taken years to get from one side of the island to the other. So, she was late, and she was panicking.

She considered renting a bike – or paying some passing cyclist for the use of his bike. Or, should said passing cyclist be unwilling to lend his transport to a damsel in distress, she could always knock him out and steal his bicycle.

A hand closed around her bare ankle, pulling her backwards.

"Hey, sweet'eart," smirked the stranger, one hand thrown over his forehead to keep the sun out of his eyes. His accent was pure English, yet he wore a t-shirt saying _On The Eighth Day, God Made The Irish_. "You look all 'ot and bovvered. Take it easy, luv, take it easy. 'Ave a drink on us, eh? Wot yeh say, sweet'eart? Wot yeh say, eh?" His thumb stroked her ankle suggestively.

Rogue wrinkled her nose. "Ah don't think so, Mister."

"Ah, c'mon, darlin'. Give us a kiss and we'll give yeh a beer and everyone's a chicken dinner."

_A what? _Jake the Frat Boy called inside her head. _What language is this guy speaking?_

Shut up, Rogue growled mentally. Even after three months of intensive training with Emma Frost, she hadn't been able to rid her mind of Jake.

"Ah said," Rogue grounded out, enunciating very syllable. "Ah don't think so." And with careful precision, she unleashed a tiny spurt of power – just enough to make the psycho release his grip on her ankle.

_BAMPF!_

The psycho was suddenly on his feet, white smoke swirling around his knees. "Hey" Chillax sweet'eart," he drawled, completely unfazed by her powers. "Are yeh from Tennessee? 'Cuz yeh're the only _ten I see_."

Rogue stared at him. A split second ago, he had been behind her, lying on the grass – now he was standing right in front of her. He was a Mutant – a Teleport. Rogue mentally scarified a dozen prize bulls to the Gods for dumping this wasted loser in her path.

"Actually, sugah," she breathed, stepping into him and laying her lips on his. "Ah'm from Mississippi." The moment their skin touched, sparks flew.

_BAMPF!_

Rogue stood back, the telltale smoke of a Teleport swirling warm and fuzzy around her knees. She smiled at the stunned man, gave a little wave, and – following Kurt Wagner's advice to never teleport to somewhere she couldn't see – willed herself to the just visible park gates. She arrived at the café to the sound of applause with two minutes to spare.

"Well, I must say," Emma intoned, clapping listlessly. "I am impressed. You are here, on time, suitably attired and simply radiant with stolen power. And here I was, worrying that you might just be late."

Rogue smirked and took her seat. "Late? Me? Never." She took an unladylike gulp of water. Using another Mutant's powers was thirsty work. "Actually, Ah seriously thought Ah was gonna be late. Ah overslept and than the Subway wasn't runnin' and Ah was really panicking, but then this drunk in Central Park grabbed my ankle. Nuthin' happened, o' course," she added, unable to restrain from smugness.

"Naturally," Emma agreed, nodding to Rogue's achievement, daintily sipping a glass of white wine. "Continue."

"Anyway, Ah gave him a quick blast to make him let go of meh and Ah turn to go, when he suddenly appears in front of meh. Believe it or not, the guy's a Teleport. What are the chances? So, Ah give him a kiss and steal some on his powers and– " she shrugged, holding up her hands and grinning, "here Ah am. On time. Suitably attired. And – what was the last one? … Cappuccino, please, sugah," she said to the passing waiter, winking.

"Simply radiant with stolen power."

"All thanks tah ya. Ah'm so grateful, Emma," Rogue said earnestly. Truth be told, she didn't exactly trust Emma Frost and nor could she honestly deduce why she had joined her that faithful night. The whole evening was an over-emotional blur, like an out-of-focused photograph. She supposed she had just been stressed out and a little upset that Logan had not had the time to talk to her. Though he had called her back an hour or so later to apologise, telling her that the moment she called one of the kid had just attempted to fly and broken their two front teeth. But she didn't regret her decision, however rash it may have been. After all, Emma could hardly make her do anything she didn't want to, could she? "Without yahr help, Ah don't know where Ah'd be. Right now, Ah just feel so free. Ah can be me, the real me, without bein' afraid o' hurtin' the people Ah love." She kicked out her bare legs under the table, rubbing her ankles together, feeling the silk caress of skin on skin. Rogue sighed dreamily. "Ya have no idea how amazin' it feels tah wear a dress again. This summer Ah'm goin' tah the beach for the first tahme in years. Ah've got it all planned out. Ah'm gonna wear bikinis and–– "

Emma smiled. "Why wait for summer?"

"Pardon? – Oh, thanks, sugah." Rogue smiled at the waiter, a most handsome Italian youth in a tight black shirt, as he set a frothing coffee down in front of her.

"Would the _bella donna_ lika some _cioccolate _with her _caffé_?" he asked.

Rogue giggled. "Say what? Ah'm sorry, Ah didn't catch that."

"Chocolate."

"Sure, sugah. Ya got any?"

The waiter held up a finger. "_Uno momento_, Bella. Sergio will get it for you."

"Ah love that guy," Rogue hissed, eyeing his retreating figure. "Did ya see his eyes? Gawd, Ah thought Ah was gonna drown in them." Emma rolled her eyes.

"I'm sure the feeling's mutual," she remarked dispassionately as Sergio came strutting out of the café holding aloft a little saucer. With a little bow, he presented Rogue with it.

"For Bella."

Rogue was touched. "Thank ya," she said quietly.

On the saucer, lying atop a cute little doily, was a chocolate heart. Her eyes on Sergio, Rogue picked it up and bit delicately into the edge. It was delicious. Strawberry goop seeped out the hole her teeth had left and she licked it quickly, not wanting to get her fingers sticky. Sergio winked and left the saucer on the table. On the saucer, beneath the doily, was the café's business card. Intrigued, Rogue flipped it over. Sergio had scrawled his number across the back.

Emma raised her eyebrows. "When you're quite finished giving that boy material for his next wet dream."

Rogue felt her cheeks heat. She averted her eyes and took a small sip of water. It tasted bitter. She guessed it had been sitting too long and the juice from the lemon segments had been into it. She set the glass down and felt a whole new pang – one that had nothing to do with acidic water. If only she was sitting across from Kitty, or Jubilee, instead of Emma. All three of them would be ogling up the waiters, giggling like schoolgirls and ordering way more coffees than they could afford. Just another day at the Mall for the students of the Xavier Institute. In time, the boys would arrive. Rogue would become unavailable when Bobby pulled up a chair beside her and insisted on buying her a fresh latte. Piotr and Kitty would strike up awkward conversations about the weather. Jubilee would still drool absently over the waiters, while John would swing back on his chair, flicking his stupid lighter and getting reminded every three seconds by passing staff that there was no smoking allowed in the restaurant.

"I'm not fucking smoking," he would protest indignantly, smirking. "Look at me, man. Do I look like I'm smoking to you? Do I have a cigarette in my hand? No. I don't. So go fuck yourself."

And then, typically, Scott would show up and John would land himself in detention for excess use of inappropriate language. Hands on his hips, the older Mutant would glare down at the pyrokinetic. "While you're out in public, you're representing the school, John. You can't go around cussing at waiters …"

"Rogue! Are you listening to me?"

Rogue blinked, brought back to reality with a bump by Emma's sharp voice. "Yes. I mean no. Ah mean, yes, Ah am. Listenin'. Ta ya … Ya were sayin'?" She took a sip of coffee. Thick and creamy but wonderfully strong, it was excellent coffee.

Emma sighed. "Charming though your past excursions in Westchester malls no doubt were, Rogue, I would ask you to refrain from dwelling on them, especially when I am discussing something more much profitable with you."

"And what were we discussin'?" Rogue asked sheepishly.

"The future."

"Ah see. Well, what about it?"

"About your future, actually," Emma corrected with a tight smile. "As I was saying earlier, why should you wait for the summer to begin your stint as a clotheshorse for scanty swimwear? As you know, I am first and foremost a business woman and, currently, I have a large business interest down in New Orleans."

Rogue inhaled. "New Orleans?" she repeated, her tone taut with excitement.

"Yes. That is what I said. I already have someone working there, but she is proving to be most ineffective and I'm getting rather impatient. I think a fresh injection of life is what the project calls for. In other words, you."

Rogue gazed at the older woman. "Ya … Want me … Tah go tah New Orleans?"

"I thought you might like the idea," Emma said. "Now kindly refrain from talking for the next five minutes and listen to me very carefully. The faster you grasp the facts of your assignment, the more time you will have for shopping." She reached for her bag and pulled out a manila folder, sliding it across the tabletop to Rogue. "Over the past seven months the Hellfire Club have been searching for certain individual whom we believe possesses very valuable information that, in the wrong hands, could lead to the annihilation of the Mutant race."

"What will it do in the right hands?" Rogue asked, a little suspicious.

Emma smiled. "What's best. Now, for the past five months this individual has been residing in a mental institution in Louisiana, an hour's journey from New Orleans. I have had an operative stationed at the institution for three months, though she has yet to produce anything remotely useful. I feel a new approach is called for." She telekinetically opened the folder and the pages shuffled themselves so that an identification document was at the fore. Rogue picked it up.

"This is meh," she said, looking from the document to Emma and back again. "It says Ah'm with the FBI."

"And so you are. You are a trainee in behavioural sciences coming to interview a patient – this said individual – for the purposes of compiling a profiling questionnaire. "

"Just like in _Silence of the Lambs?_" Rogue interposed warily. Playing _pro quid quo _with a psychopath wasn't exactly high on her to-do list.

"A most accurate metaphor. Only your task will be much easier than poor Clarice Starling's."

"How so?"

Emma raised her eyebrows. "I would have thought the answer obvious. Unlike Clarice, you can simply reach out and touch our little friend, and everything he knows, you will know too. Try not to kill him in the process, if you can. I do hate dead bodies. They're so inconvenient."

Rogue nodded. "I'll try … But how am I gonna get tah touch him? It's a mental asylum, not a pettin' zoo."

Emma smiled. "That's your problem." She took one last sip of coffee and stood up. "Your flight leaves at eleven PM. The driver will pick you up at ten. Don't be late."

"What? Today?" Rogue yelped, startled.

Emma smiled. "There's no time like the present."

"But–– "

But she was gone. Her brain reeling, Rogue reached across the table for Emma's abandoned wine and drained the glass.

* * *

Sorry, no Remy in this chapter, but I PROMISE he'll make an appearance in Chapter Five. Cross my heart, swear to die, stick a needle in my eye, may rats gnaw them out if I'm telling a lie. Which, obviously, I'm not because I rather like my eyes. We're quite attached. LOL

Reviews are great, or cyber M&Ms – take your pick. I replied to all the signed ones I received for the last chapter personally, **_IcedBlaze_**, _**parris411**_, _**RogueNya**_, **_Prince cl0ud9_**, **_Like A Clockwork Orange_**, **_summergirlforever_**, _**coup fatal**_–love love LOVE you all!

And the unsigned ones:

_**Sapphyre **_– well, I do have a great right hook, if I say so myself. My brother taught me a few summers ago in compensation for breaking my leg. He jumped on it, and, well ... It's a long and rather conveluated story that you probably have no interest in at all. Thanks for the review

_**alexmonalisa**_ – wow! You read my story! I love your work! Ah! Excuse me while I go hyperventalate in the corner!

Cheers, Plonksie


	6. Chapter Five

I know this chapter is long, but I don't care. Gambit is soooooo much fun to write. I think I'm in love … with _another _fictional character. Oh well. I guess they'll just have to get in line, won't they. Sirius Black, Dr. Who, the Phantom of the Opera, Jack's Smirking Revenge, Ford Prefect, James Bond (c'mon. Who _doesn't_ want to do James Bond? … Especially now he's all Craigalicious … did I just say Craigalicious? Okay, you have full permission to shoot me now), Leonardo Di Caprio – What? He's _not_ a fictional character? Are you _sure_?

So many fictional men, so little time. What's a girl to do?

I got some AMAZING feedback last chapter, some great reviews (eleven in total! eleven! I was practically wetting myself), so keep it up, please please PLEASE. There's nothing more inspiring for a writer than a good honest review.

I think I replied to all the signed reviews in person, but here another shout to my peeps, just because you guys kick ass: **_Lanfear1_**, **_IcedBlaze_**, **_Sagebeth_**, _**parris411 **_(dude, it was OBVIOUSLY a drunken ENGLISH teleport. No Irishman would ever perve on a sweet Southern Belle. We have taste … Oh, that came out harsh. LOL … not that I'm a drunken Irishman, or anything), **_hotbritt5000_**, **_Prince cl0ud9_**, **_coup fatal _**(yes, yes that is EXACTLY what we're getting here. And you can have some Toblerone for figuring it out – y'know, triangle-shaped chocolate!), **_RogueNya_**, _**Kerrilea**_, **_summergirlforever_** (kudos to you for graduating)

And the loner who didn't sign in, the black sheep: **_alexmonalisa_** – I do solemnly swear I am up to no good. That's all I'm going to say. I claim the Fifth (is that right? Is it the Fifth? I know the First is the righ to bear arms, and I think, gathered from watching _Leaving Las Vegas_, that the Eighty-Sixth is the right to refuse service … And why am I bothering with this?)

Beta'd by the splendtacular **_WandaW_** – not just splendid, but spectacular as well!

* * *

**Glass**

Chapter Five – Fear And Loathing In New Orleans

_  
What's so unpleasant about being drunk? You ask a glass of water  
_Douglas Adams

.

* * *

_… it had given her a reason to hate that stupid Southern girl with the white strips in her hair, the one whose name he whispered, unaware, in his sleep – But other than that, love had done nothing for Wanda. She had felt nothing. Until now. _

_She was pleading with him. "Don't you remember me?"_

_Pyro said nothing. Did nothing. Noticed nothing. His blank eyes slid right over her without igniting a spark of identification. It was as if they had never met at all. _

* * *

Rogue read the email twice, thrice, ten times, until there could be no doubts whatsoever as to who it was from, who it was intended for and whom it concerned. The question was how did something Wanda Maximoff sent, in all confidence, to Emma Frost, end up in her server? The answer, Rogue knew, was simple. Wanda Maximoff was a bitch. She had done this to belittle her, make her feel worthless and incompetent, provoke her into doing something rash and stupid, maybe even upset her to a point where she would just leave, slam the door, go.

Go. You're not wanted here. Little girl.

That was what stung the most. _Little girl_. The words in themselves were nothing special, no censor would have blocked them, but it what they carried, what they insinuating. It was so demeaning, so humiliating, a loss of dignity.

_I wouldn't blame her if she fails; after all, she's only a little girl. _

How much older than her was Wanda? Rogue guessed a year, two at the very most. So what made her so special, what elevated her from the status of a little girl? Since she was sixteen, Rogue's lie had been once constant drama of life-threatening experiences. She had been evicted from her own room, hitch-hiked to Alaska, attended mutant school, been captured and almost killed, fallen in love, been almost captured once more this time narrowly escaping in a blue Mazda, seen a much loved friend transcend into some nightmarish monster, teetered on the brink of extinction, fallen out of love, made the biggest decision of her life, left behind another home, another set of friends, blindly put her faith in some woman with cold eyes and colder words, taking a gamble that somehow paid off so that here she was, standing here, down in New Orleans, able to touch, to shake another human being's hand without killing them, on a mission with the fate of her the mutant race on he shoulders – and yet she was no more than a little girl. Surely, surely, after all this, she had achieved something more?

Rogue's hands shook as she closed the laptop's lid. There was a rushing in her ears, like the feeling one gets when taking off, like a huge conch shell. Her skin was hot and cold simultaneously. She was suddenly aware of her body, aware of blood thudding through every tiny vessel, in her throat, her chest, her baby finger.

Once, years and years ago, a different life even, she had been caught up in a schoolyard spat with her best friend Caitlin Jennings. It had escalated to the point where Caitlin had beheaded her favourite Barbie and little Marie seethed all the way home, her tiny mind buzzing, all parts working together like a colony of ants to come up with some revenge wicked enough for Caitlin Jennings. Rogue still remembered the feeling of vindictive pleasure, squirming with some perverse glee, as in her mind she put Caitlin through horror upon horror, until she was no longer angry, but laughing. She was not laughing now, because, unlike Caitlin, she could not scribble on Wanda's copybooks, she couldn't steal her lunch and blame it on Bradley Jacobs, she couldn't accidentally forget to invite her to her birthday party (they were getting a clown, a _real_ one, and Caitlin would be so jealous because at her party they hadn't had a real clown, only her uncle dressed up as one; they couldn't afford a real clown, but Marie could because her daddy was a cop, a deputy, and Caitlin's daddy only worked at the local mercantile store). She couldn't hurt Wanda like Wanda hurt her – what could she do? Write to Emma? Lodge a formal complaint?

_Dear Emma. Wanda is a bitch. I think you ought to fire her. Hope the weather is nice up in New York. Yours sincerely, Rogue. _

Rogue snorted with laughter. If she was to exact a revenge, it would not be with words. She had never been able to wound using language, not deeply with spite. Whenever she spoke with malice it was aided by blind rage and much emotion, the words usually provided by the little voices in her head, Magneto and Pyro. John had a way with words that could strip the flesh right down to the bone. But he was gone now and Rogue was all alone.

The Caitlin problem had dispersed quickly. She had stormed home, banging the screen door, and her grandmomma scolded her from the kitchen. Marie scowled her way through her cookies and milk and Grandma Mae, her mother's mother, had sat opposite her only grandchild, surveying her over her dime-store glasses, a wise old owl waiting for the damn to burst. It did when Marie gave her cookie, which had Caitlin's face on it, a particularly vicious dunk, for it to break it half so sodden down with milk. Marie had proceeded to tell her grandmomma everything, everything, including all her plans for the perfect revenge. But Grandma Mae didn't giggle with her as Marie had expected when told about the anthill that she would trick Caitlin into sitting on. She took Marie on her lap and told her that she was at a crossroads, a fork in the road, and that she now had two roads to choose from. The low road and the high road.

Marie took the high road and Caitlin gave her her very own best Barbie for her birthday and they had been friends up until Rogue left the town. Caitlin had even stuck by Rogue while her own brother lay in a coma.

But that had been a different life. Marie might have taken the high road, held her head high and carried on with her day – but Marie was Marie and Rogue was Rogue and there was no way she was going to sit back and take Wanda's crap. There was only one way she could beat her without sinking to her level of whiny bitching to the boss – and that was by doing this job, doing it quick, and doing it well, no matter what it entailed. Even if she had to drain the informant dry, so God help her, she would. This was war and Rogue took no prisoners. Her jaw set hard, she gazed at her reflection in the mirror mounted above the desk. A pale-faced young woman stared back at her, a determination so fiery in her eyes it could have lit a candle at ten paces. A slight smirk curled Rogue's lips. Johnny would have appreciated that. Fiery.

Rogue looked harder at the mirror, her staring morphing into a glare and her eyes devoured her reflection, hating everything that connected her with youth, that tied her down. Her eyes, like Bambi in their width, eyes just crying out to be manipulated; her nose, soft and disgustingly cute, without a pointed edge to show her transition from child to adult; her hair, falling down her back, waiting for mommy to come and plait it for school, tie it up with a pretty ribbon. Almost of their own accord, Rogue's hands caught up her hair, entrapping it in a ponytail, a tight one at the base of her neck. She was aiming for sophisticated elegance with an edge, something that Emma Frost pulled off so effortlessly. Rogue just looked like a horse. She twirled a strand around her finger, curls maybe, the way Wanda had them, like she had just fallen out of bed, like she had just got it on with your boyfriend down a back alley and he liked it. But the last time Rogue had curled her hair, she looked like an overgrown Shirley Temple.

There was only one thing for it. It had to go.

Moving as thought underwater, Rogue crossed back to the bathroom and with slow, precise actions, washed the scissors of hair under the tap, dried them with a towel and left them on the desk for room service to collect later. Fetching a dustpan and brush from the cleaning cart down the hall, Rogue swept up the hair and emptied it into a plastic bag. She tied the bag shut and dumped it in the trash. She had half left the bathroom when she turned back. Taking from the mini-bar a bottle of overpriced Vodka, she emptied the clear liquid over the plastic bag and struck a match. The fire flared up, much quicker and hotter than she had expected, and she dropped it with a yelp. It hit the alcohol and was extinguished with a lame hiss. Sucking on her burned finger, Rogue frowned. Wasn't alcohol supposed to burn? She scowled at the Vodka-soaked hair for a long moment, breathing in the vapours, searching her head for an answer.

_Search me_, was all Jake the Frat-boy could come out with. _I failed chemistry_

Magneto probably would have known. Logan, too, with all his experience of cigars and alcohol. John would have answered her within seconds. He would have told her what to do if she wanted to fucking burn this hair. In her ignorance, Rogue had no choice but to press on blindly, Jake's useless comments echoing around the otherwise empty departure's lounge of her mind.

With only three matches, Rogue's patience was fraying irreconcilably. She had to burn this hair. She had to. It was a symbol, a rite of passage. From the ashes a Phoenix would arise, beautiful and powerful and strong.

The problem was the matches didn't last long enough. If she had a cigarette, she could have thrown it in, burying it deep in the drier hair – but she didn't smoke. Rogue briefly entertained the idea of making a Molotov cocktail. She had never done so before, but she was positive it didn't take a fine craft. Open a bottle, shove a rag down the top with one end touching the alcohol, light the top of the rag, and, _voila_, instant bomb. Crude, yes, but nonetheless highly effective. A most Machiavellian creation. The ends justifies the means. But Rogue did not want to burn down the whole hotel. Once the fire was lit, there was no guarantee it would burn itself out, that it would put away the ball and come inside for dinner like a good boy. Someone like Wanda wouldn't have cared. Rogue did.

In the end, she lit the end of the end of a rolled up newspaper and thrust it deep into the hair. Fire billowed upwards and Rogue leapt back. The smell of burning hair made her cough and splutter and grated at her nose and throat. Grabbing her bag, she hurried from the room and down the stairwell, sure to pull the fire alarm on her way. The sprinkler system kicked into life as Rogue emerged out into the Hilton's lobby, her feet as light as feathers. Stepping outside, she hailed a taxi. "Ah wanna get drunk without crappy music deafenin' meh and sleazy guys hittin' on me every five seconds. Take meh there."

"Where's th' magic word, _chérie_?" teased the driver.

Rogue glared at him. "Money."

"I was hopin' y'd say dat. Don't worry. I know jus' th' place."

Rogue looked out the window as they drove, watching the streets get more and more decimated as they neared the city's poorer outskirts. The extent of the devastation surprised her. She would have thought that so long after Hurricane Katrina, some order would have been restored to the city, some dignity. The driver caught her expression in his rear-view mirror. "Sad, ain't it, _chérie_? Such a _beau_ city an' look at her now. She's not'in' but a ghost."

Rogue frowned. "Why don't the government do sumthin'?" she asked, her tone more demanding than she had intended. "They should be spendin' the money on rebuilding American cities and not on bombin' other ones."

"It's a ghost, _chérie_. She's dead. Ain't no amount o' money c'n bring back th' dead."

"Shame."

"Yeah. Shame. A cryin' shame. An' y' know what else is a shame?"

Rogue shook her head, still gazing out the window, craning her neck to follow a broken church. The roof had collapsed, yet the door still stood strong and proud and open. Her grandmother had once told her, _don't tell God how big your storm is, Marie. Tell ya storm how big ya God is. _But the Church, door or no door, was destroyed, and God did nothing.

"A young _fille_ like y'self goin' out t' get drunk on her own," said the driver in tones bordering on paternal. "Y' should be wit' y' friends, _chérie_. Smilin' and laughin' and teasin' de _garcons_."

Rogue knew he only meant well by it, but still she felt an irrational rage pulse through her, an echo of what had gripped her earlier that evening. Who was this man? Just a taxi driver! How dare he ask questions of her, of what she was doing, what she should be doing? She was in control of her own life, she took orders from no one. That girl was gone, that little girl.

"Ah'm payin' ya tah drive meh," Rogue said with as much arctic politeness as she could, a technique she had learned from observing Emma Frost. "Not tah lecture meh, or tell me what ta do, or tah be ma father, thank ya very much."

The driver caught her eyes in the rear-view, two crinkled old dust beetles brimming with the wisdom only taxi drivers seem to have. Rogue scowled but could not look away. She felt ashamed.

"I ain't lecturin' y'. I'm jus' tellin' what I think."

"Well, thanks, but Ah don't need tah know what ya think," she replied, a little tersely, but devoid of the prior's coldness. "Ah'm perfectly capabale of makin' mah _own_ decisions."

"Ahh." The driver gave a sigh of comprehension. "Ahhh. What did dey say t' y' _Chérie_?"

Rogue raised her eyebrows. "Ah have absolutely no idea what ya're talkin' about. If Ah want tah get drunk, Ah'll get drunk, and Ah'll decide when and where. Meh – No one else."

"Dey must have said somet'in' fright awful t' have y' al upset like this, _Chérie_. I have daughters too, y' know, an' de same wife for forty-six years. I know when a girl's hurtin'."

Rogue opened her mouth to deny this, to maintain that she didn't need an excuse to get drunk if that was what she wanted to do, but instead of words what came out was a wet gasp. Her eyes burned and prickled, and her lips twitched and a lump rose in the back of her throat. She took a deep shuddering breath. She was not going to cry in the back of some random taxi, she was not.

She imagined what Wanda would say if she could see her now … Little girl, crying in the back of a taxi.

Hot, angry tears burs rebelliously forth, splashing down her cheeks. Furiously, she dragged the back of her hand over her hand. It came away with thick black streaks. Silently, the driver handed back a dented box of tissues. "Get it all out, _chérie_. Get all dat poison out."

"It's all her fault," Rogue sniffed loudly, swabbing at her eyes with a wadded up tissue. "She's a bitch. She hated meh right from the start, nevah gave me a chance. Ah don't know why."

"She jealous?" suggested the driver, a weathered therapist.

Rogue shook her hand, snorting with laughter. "Jealous? Of meh? Not when she looks lahke Isabella Rossalini."

"Never lahked redheads m'self. Too temperamental."

"Temperamental is right." Rogue leaned forward in the back, hugging the headrest of his seat. "Ya know what she did the first time we met?" she asked in the conspiratorial whisper of a storyteller who has finally got their star audience. "She _attacked _meh. She has serious anger management issues. And now, Emma Frost – she's our boss – thinks she ain't workin' fast enough down here so she sent meh down too. Wanda thinks she can walk all over meh. She complained straight tah Emma, sayin' how Ah was goin' tah jeopardise the mission an' everythin' on account of meh being '_naïve and inexperienced, without __the subtlety or intelligence required to carry out such an important task_'," Rogue recited in a high-pitched voice, tossing her newly-cropped head as Wanda did her curls. "'_Doubtlessly she lacks the patience and skill_', _'is it wise to hand such a vital job over to a girl who's never truly worked for us and has so quickly switched loyalties in the past. I only hope she's worthy of the trust you are placing in her_' blah blah blah '_though I wouldn't blame her if she fails; after all, she's only a little girl_'."

The taxi driver chuckled. "Said dat, did she? Well, didn't her _Mère_ never tell her dat good goods come in small packages?"

Rogue's face split into a watery smile. She had heard those words so many times before, from her grandmomma, from fridge magnets, from her friends, Jubilee and Kitty and John, but, somehow, she felt as if this was the very first time. It was the first time they meant anything real.

"So does arsenic," she muttered, her lips caught up in a smile that refused to die.

"Dat's the spirit, _chérie_. Y' keep on smilin'. Y' shouldn't ever have t' cry. Y' should only smile, because when a _beau fille _like y'self does smile, she can eclipse de sun. And we could do wit' some sunshine down here. We could sure all do wit' some sunshine."

"Rogue," Rogue told her, her voice all soft, like it was a secret.

"_Pardon?_"

"Mah name." She spoke louder. "It's Rogue."

"Dat's one pretty name y' got dere, Rogue," said the driver. "Dere's a lot of sunshine in dat name. Let it show, Rogue. Let dat sunshine show, 'cause dey ain't worth it. Whoever dey are, dey just ain't worth it."

Rogue swallowed. "Thank ya," she said, sincerely. "Thank ya …"

"Javert," he supplied. "_J'mappelle _Javert."

"Thank ya Javert."

They finally stopped in front of a dilapidated old bar about a mile off the main road, down a potholed dirt track. The parking lot housed a few sorry-looking pick-up trucks and the neon sign above the door had seen better days. "Don't be fooled, _chérie_," said Javert. "The compn'y's good an' th' beer is cheap. Jus' tell Lucien dat y're Javert's _petit_ an' he'll look after y' real well."

Rogue handed him a five-hundred dollar bill. "Keep the change, sugar."

Javert grinned. "Dis some o' dat Emma Frost's money, _neh_?"

"Maybe."

"G'luck, _chérie_. Javert be dinkin' of y'."

"Ya too," Rogue returned sincerely, getting out of the cab. "Thanks."

"Don' mention it."

Rogue waited until the cab had disappeared up the dirt track in a cloud of dust and then ventured inside. The bar was busy yet somehow it seemed empty. Old men huddled around tables in dark corners muttering away in broken French, young men shot pool at the three-legged table without a fuss and in the corner some middle-aged woman with too much make-up and a battered cowboy hat crooned over a pitcher and an out-of tune guitar. But despite her worn appearance there was something strong within the woman, something beautiful. Her creaking voice, husky and rich, or her poetry, Rogue didn't know. She listened.

_Lonely girls, lonely girls,  
__Lonely girls, lonely girls  
__Heavy blankets, heavy blankets  
__Heavy blankets cover lonely girls. _

She made her way over to the bar and sat down heavily. No one wolf-whistled as she peeled off her coat, no one even noticed she had arrived, and if they had, they kept a respectful difference. Just another homecoming queen ready to drink her sorrows away; give her some space, _hommes_, y' know how she be feelin'. Yes, this bar was exactly what she wanted. As Javert had advised her, she gave his name when the bartender, who looked like an aged pirate, with an eye patch and an earring with what looked like a cracked alligator fang dangling from it, ambled over to her. He fixed her up with a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass and the promise not to disturb her until all the alcohol was gone.

_Sparkling rhinestones, sparkling rhinestones  
__Sparkling rhinestones shine on lonely girls._

"Ah'll drink tah that," Rogue muttered, tipping her glass to her lips. So much for the Hellfire Club, for a new life, for freedom and adventure. Here she was in some God-awful bar down in a broken New Orleans, sheared like a sheep, downing shots like a pro and listening to washed-up prostitutes put a tune to disappointment and failure and rusty dreams.

_Lonely girls, lonely girls,  
__Lonely girls, lonely girls  
__I oughta know, I oughta know  
__I oughta know about lonely girls._

A rich voice wrapped velvet around her shoulders, peppered with the local spice. "What's a _belle femme _like y' doin' in a place like dis?"

Slowly, Rogue swung her head in the direction of the voice. Her eyes half-closed, she droned out, "Ya flirtin' with meh, swamp rat?"

"Ya likin' it river rat?"

Rogue snorted into her whiskey. "Ah refuse tah justify that question with an answer."

"Remy'll take dat as a _oui_," the Cajun returned. Rogue could practically smell his grin, all cheek and charm oozing out of every pore. It might have worked on some other girl in some other bar, but it was not about to work on her. She was not a little girl, fooled by a winning smile and the right words. She had been there, done that. Grown up. Matured. See what Wanda thought about that.

There was a scraping of wood on stone as he pulled up the stool beside her. The nerve of him.

"_Remy_'ll take himself outta mah face right now if he knows what's good fohr him," Rogue growled, refusing to look at him in the hope that if she refused to acknowledge his existence he might give up and go away. Tonight of all nights, the last thing she wanted was to be cannon fodder for some sleazy Cajun who was deluded enough to think he was God's spice-smelling gift to women.

"Good? Ah _chère_. Dere ain't no fun in bein' _good_."

"That's jus' too bad."

"Now Remy likes de sound o' dat."

Rogue buried her face in her hands and wished upon wish she had adamantium blades at her beck and call. Concentrating her utmost on giving out vibes that, without much subtlety, stated with glaring obviousness that, no matter who this guy was, be he her future husband, the President of the United States or Jesus H. Christ himself, at this current moment in time she just was not interested, she despaired or ground out with as much venom as was humanly possible, "Ah don't believe ya talk about yaself in the third person."

The Cajun shrugged a shoulder with effortless nonchalance. "People is always talkin' 'bout Remy. He jus' doin' de same, _chère_." Somehow he managed to sound modest.

"Quit callin' meh _chère_," she snapped, more for want of something to say. She could not help but grudgingly award him brownie points for persistence.

The smirk grew as he leant in close. "Why?" he murmured, his breath brushing against her neck. "Is Remy makin' y' blush?"

Rogue jumped. "_No!_" she exclaimed loudly. Too loudly. The whole bar shuddered to a halt and all eyes swivelled until they, the swamp rat and the river rat, sat in the spotlight. Even the broken queen in the corner stopped her strumming and looked up. This was the precise moment Remy chose to return with,

"Den why y' blushin'?"

"Am not," Rogue denied heatedly.

And failed miserably.

The Cajun shrugged. "Suit y'self."

"Ah am _not _blushin', swamp rat. And _stop callin' meh_ _chère__!_"

"Remy heard y', _ma petite chérie_."

"Ah am not yehr little cherry, Cajun."

"_Vous parlez français_? Remy likes dat in a _fille_. _Une _Bourbon, _mon ami_, and anot'er of whatever _ma chérie_ is havin'," he signalled to the bartender, pulling out a pack of cards and shuffling them with expert ease. Like a moth to a flame, Rogue's eyes were drawn to the cards. Such complex manoeuvres, single-handed and without even looking. One half of her wanted to throw the drink the bartender set down in front of her over his stupid mullet for being such a showboating ass. The other rather liked watching his hands move. Beneath fingerless gloves, his fingers were long and clever. Rogue bet they were soft.

She shook herself.

Fancy cards tricks and expensive whiskeys aside, this ass could go play Marvin the Magician for someone else. Tonight she was moping and woe betide he who interrupted her. She pushed the drink away. "Well Remy can go ahead and lahke it in _another _girl because Ah'm – not – interested. _Comprende_, bub?"

"Dat's Spanish, _chére_."

"Go _AWAY!_"

Rogue leapt backwards, less than sober, and fell backwards off her stool. Then suddenly she wasn't falling any more, but being guided through liquid air. Wondering what had stopped her freefall, she cracked open her eyes and saw her face reflected in mirrored lenses. The Cajun had managed not only to catch her, but to swing her down into a bell. _If_ she had been in a better mood, Rogue might have appreciated his rugged good looks; a strong jaw softened with stubble, auburn hair cut in a shaggy mulletand bedecked with a faded old red bandana tied Deer Hunter style around his head, full lips curled up into a roguish smirk, eyes hidden behind dark glasses, all dark allure. _If _she had been in a better mood, she might have snuggled up against his chest, hard and smooth, a perfect continuation of his lithe form, and breathed in the musky smell of cayenne and risk that hung about _if_ she had been in a better mood, she might have even given him a peck on the cheek, earning them claps and cheers from the patrons. Although she would rather die than admit it, he was starting growing on her. He reminded her of a stray dog, the kind that keeps coming back, tail wagging, no matter how hard you kick it, and shoving its wet nose into your hand, gazing imploring up at you with those big doggie eyes. The loveable stray kind.

However, as it was, she was not in a very good mood at all, and she slapped him. Hard.

He didn't even flinch. Nor did he let her go.

Rogue rolled her eyes.

In the mirror she saw three men enter the bar. Two were proportional to mountains while the third was sleek and dark with hooded eyes and a throwaway smile. Handsome, but in a polished way that did not appeal to Rogue at all. She was instantly reminded of Emma Frost and her two goons. And like Emma Frost, men like that didn't just walk into bars like this. They were looking for something. Or someone. Curious, she followed their progression through the bar. While the muscle scanned the crowd, the ringleader snapped for the bartender. They started up a conversation.

Rogue glanced up her Cajun non-friend. His eyes were fixed on the mirror. He didn't seem to be breathing. Almost instinctively, her eyes wafted up to join his.

"Ya know these people?" she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

He nodded, just once. "If dey ask y', m'name's Henri an' y'rs is Belladonna and we very much in love. _D'accord?_"

Though it didn't exactly seem like the most opportune moment, Rogue was about to tell him that her knowledge of the French language was limited to the lyrics of _Lady Marmalade _and so, _ergo_, she had no idea what he had said … when the bartender pointed in their direction.

"_Merde._"

Rogue understood that one.

Slowly, he set her on her feet. They were still holding hands, glove on glove, bare fingers on bare fingers. In his other hand, he fiddled absently with the pack of cards. Rogue grudgingly admired his effortless skill, though she had to question his timing. Maybe he thought he could play his way out of whatever trouble he, and no doubt his big mouth, had gotten himself into.

The trio descended on them. "Are y' Remy LeBeau?" demanded the leader.

Remy cast his eyes about shiftily. "Does he owe y' money?"

"_Oui_," snarled the leader. "A lot."

"Den I never heard o' de _homme_. _Désolé_, _mon ami_. Sorry. Gotta go. _Ma_ _chère_ here is drunk." He held Rogue against him, like a kid presenting a show-and-tell. _See, miss, I _did_ do my homework._

"Ah'm drunk?" she repeated indignantly, trying to pull away. herself "Ah am _not_ drunk, Henri, excuse meh!" She was most certainly not drunk, and could stand by herself. She wasn't a little girl.

Remy appealed to the leader. "Like I said. _Très _drunk. C'mon, Bella, _ma chérie_." He caught Rogue by the shoulders steering her past the leader. "_Fast fast __chère_," he breathed. "Jus' t' de door and den y' free."

"Not so fast." An arm snapped out, catching Rogue by the wrist.

"Hey! Let go o' meh!" Rogue exclaimed, wrenching on her arm, but the goon held on tightly. "Let go o' meh, Ah said."

"Pipe down, lil' lady," smirked the leader. "Y' boyfriend and I got business tah discuss."

Rogue opened her mouth to tell this guy that, 1) she was not a _lil' lady_,and, 2) Remy LeBeau, whoever he was or was not, was most definitely _not _her boyfriend, when the goon forced her into a chair. He grabbed her by her cropped hair, yanking her head back and exposing her throat. She froze. This was not good. She struggled, but, quick as flash, the other goon was on to her, pinning her down. He was wearing gloves, rendering her only weapon useless.

"Let meh go!" She meant it as a scream, but all that came out of her pressured windpipe was an incoherent wheeze.

The leader tilted his head towards her, so close that she could smell the wax in his hair. His breath curled in her ear. "What's dat, _ma __amour_? Y' say somet'in? By all means, say it again." His eyes on the Cajun, he licked Rogue's neck. She was so shocked she forgot to turn on her power. "Mmm." The leader smacked his lips. "Tastes like vanilla … How much do y' want for her? Maybe we can work somet'in out after all?"

Rogue's eyes widened and then narrowed. If looks could kill, Remy LeBeau would be six feet under and counting. He seemed to realise this and quickly set about making amends.

"Let her go," he snarled. "She ain't done nut'in t' y'. She's jus' a _fille_ I met t'night."

"So y' _are_ Remy LeBeau?"

"To my friends, de name's Remy LeBeau. To my enemies, it's Gambit. You can go on ahead an' forget dat first name right about now."

The leader scowled. "I don' like y' tone, boy."

"I said let her go."

"No. Don't dink I will."

"Let meh go!" Rogue spluttered, struggling hard. She would not do this, she would not be the damsel in distress, the little girl. "Let meh go, ya bastard!"

The leader rounded on her. Grabbing her chin, he pulled her face upwards. "What did y' call me?" he hissed, livid.

Rogue spat in his face.

"_Putain!_"

"Bastard."

There was a splintering crash as the leader smashed an empty beer bottle off the edge of the table. Grasping the jagged half, he pressed against her throat. "What did y' call me?" he snarled, digging the serrated edges into her flesh. Red blood dribbled down her white flesh as pink light was reflected on brown glass.

* * *

Ooohhh… Cliffie… Will our intrepid hereoes esape the clucthes of the evil leader dude? Or will they perish? … Of course they won't, you can't kill off two of the main characters ten minutes into the movie … Oh, wait, no. You can … But they're not even in the shower! Dude, that's wack … So if I got them into a shower, I could kill them ten minutes into the movie? … Well, it wouldn't be ten minutes, now, would it, because they have to escape from the clutches of the evil leader dude first, don't they, and unless they have superhuman powers or something, chances are it'll take longer than the half a minute required if they are to be in the shower, lambs for the slaughter, within the first ten minutes … They do have superhuman powers … That's hardly the point!

Sorry, talking to myself. LOL. Anyway, this was my first time writing Gambit, really writing him, as a main character and not just a few lines here and a sexy trench coat there, so I would really appreciate some feedback on how people thought he was. I'm biting my nails here.

Oh, and if anyone can think of a better chapter title, I will be eternally grateful to them for the rest of, um, eternity.

Cheers, Plonksie

ps: remember, if you're a kyro fan (and if you are, I have no fucking idea what you're doing here reading a Pyrogmy, you traitor - besides getting your fill of awe-inspiringly written fiction. LOL) check out the **_Save The Kyro _**forum.


	7. Chapter Six

**A/N: **I'm leaving today for a five-week holiday Down Under (the Aussie relatives want quantifiable proof that I am actually still alive) so this could be the last post for a while, because A) I'm not sure if I'll have time to write (you know what family's are like!) and B) yes, the internet will be accessible (this is Australia, people, and not Antarctica), but the question is whether I will be able to access it, again with the family eating up all my time. Hopefully we shall meet again sooner rather than later, but if the latter is to be the case (sob!), I want you all to know that I love each and every one of you with all my heart …

That sounded so much better in my head. LOL

_Reviews:_

All were signed in so I replied to them personally, thank you to **_Abeytu_**, _**aiRo25**_, _**Green Peridot**_, **_coup fatal_**, _**alexmonalisa**_, **_RogueNya_** - you dudes rock my socks

_Beta'__d by **WandaW**_

**

* * *

Glass**

Chapter Six – Can't Speak French

_Calamity is the perfect glass wherein we truly see and know ourselves_  
William Davenant

.

* * *

_There was a splintering crash as the leader smashed an empty beer bottle off the edge of the table. Grasping the jagged half, the leader pressed it against Rogue'__s throat. "What did y' call me?" he snarled, digging the serrated edges into her flesh, and red blood dribbled down brown glass._

* * *

Then pink light blinded her and an explosion shook the room. There was screaming and breaking glass and thuds of furniture and bodies alike as chaos descended. Rogue slipped sideways off her chair and crawled blindly across the card-strewn floor, her ears ringing and her vision neon pink.

"Gotcha!"

She howled in pain as someone seized her by the hair and began dragging her backwards. She saw a playing card flying towards her, pulsing with light. Who ever knew pink could be so portentous?

"_Duck, chère!_"

Rogue didn't need telling twice. She threw herself forward as the card connected with the goon's face. The result was not pretty. With adrenalin-fuelled agility, she leapt to her feet. A hundred different defensive manoeuvres, all taught to her by Logan, speed through her mind like a videotape on fast-forward. _Are you girls trained or untrained?_, he used to yell at them as they ran laps.

Rogue was trained.

Gambit was in trouble. He was wrestling with the leader, who was trying to force his knife towards his throat. They grappled with each other, locked in stalemate; the leader seemed to just absorb all the pink light without exploding. Pity.

But not for long.

Rogue yanked off her glove.

The leader slumped to the floor. Gambit bent over the body. He snapped his fingers and a single playing card appeared in his hand. The Ace of Spades. Grinning crookedly, he tucked the card into the leader's breast pocket, tapping his cheek twice. "_Au revoir_,_ mon ami_. Pleasure meetin' y'. Don' bother t' keep in touch."

"When ya're quite finished sayin' goodbye tah ya boyfriend, can we go?" Rogue yelled at him over the anarchy, stealing a gun off the unconscious goon. How they had suddenly become a _we_ she wasn't so sure. But she did know that if a horde of bloodthirsty gunmen came sprinting in through the door to avenge their leader's death, she would fare much better with Gambit by her side … And it was kind of fun. He was kind of fun. "The bartender ain't very happy with us rahght now. Ah think he's gone tah get his gun."

Gambit was on his feet in a millisecond, trench coat billowing out. He nodded towards the door. "Dis way."

They were a foot from the door when it burst open and horde of bloodthirsty gunmen came sprinting in to avenge their leader's death.

"Run!" Gambit yelled. He grabbed Rogue, forced her into a crouch and dragged her back through the mob, flinging a quartet of glowing Jacks over his shoulder. Rogue flinched as the explosion washed over her back, shockwaves from the earthquake. They crashed though a doorway, down a dank hallway, past the bathrooms and spilled out into the night. "Come on! _Allons!_" They hurtled down the alley, took a sharp left and emerged into harsh halogen light. They were around the back of the bar, armed and angry men hot on their heels.

"Tell me ya got a car," Rogue panted, desperately scanning the scanty parking lot. There was only one car of note, a sleek black Mercedes, and she was willing to bet that it belonged to their mutual friends.

"_Non_–– "

"Ah was scared ya were gonna say that."

"But I got a bike."

"What?" Rogue looked up. Gambit was standing triumphantly over a motorcycle. It looked practically prehistoric, held together by spit and prayers. "Is that yahrs?"

He looked disgusted at the very idea. "_Non_."

"So you're gonna steal it?"

Gambit looked a little confused. "_Oui_." Only it came out like _duh_.

"Ya can't just go stealing otha people's bikes!" Rogue yelled. "How would ya lahke it if Ah stole yahr stuff?"

He shrugged. "I'm a thief, _chère_, jus' doin' what comes natural." He mounted the bike with a fluid grace and glanced over his shoulder at Rogue. "Comin'?"

Rogue stared at him, temporarily speechless. "Ya've got tah be joking meh," she spluttered. "There ain't no way in Hell Ah'm ridin' that thing! It'll break the moment ya turn the key. Oh, wait, Ah forgot. Ya don't _have _the key. Ya're _stealin' _it! … And, Ah don't have a helmet. And Ah'm in a dress. Are ya crazy? Ah'd kill mahself. Or, more correctly, _ya'd_ kill meh."

Two gunmen, one of which was the goon missing his face, came barrelling down the alleyway, guns blazing.

"Changed mah mind."

Rogue leapt onto the back of the bike and threw her arms around Remy's waist. He chuckled, kicking up the stand, revved the engine and the bike roared into life. And then stuttered and died.

"Dis could be a problem."

"Ya think?"

Gambit revved again, this time more slowly, muttering sweet nothings in French to the engine, and it coughed and wheezed, and, most unwillingly, started. They trundled out of the lot, slowly gathering speed. "_Rapidement, rapidement_," Gambit pleaded with the engine. "_Faster_."

Rogue made the mistake of looking over her shoulder. A bullet cracked by her cheek, missing her millimetres.

"Get us outta here," she yelled at Gambit as the men rounded the corner. Her powers were useless at this range.

"Tryin', _chère_, tryin'."

"Well stop tryin' and start doin'!"

A volley of bullets came clattering after them as even more men came pouring out of the alley.

"_Cajun!_" Rogue screeched. "Can't you blow them up or somethin'?" She ripped out the stolen gun and retaliated. Nothing happened. She pulled back the safety and tried again. A shot sparked off and thudded into the dumpster the men were hiding behind.

"Give me de gun," Gambit ordered.

"What? No way. Ya've got the bike, Ah've got the gun."

"Gimme de gun."

Rogue squeezed off another round as the motorbike floundered through a series of potholes metres from the gates, and all the bullets thudding harmlessly into the dumpster. She swore loudly. She had only one bullet left. "It's yahr Goddamn drivin' Cajun! It's makin' meh miss!"

"Dere ain't not'ing wrong with Remy's drivin'," Gambit fumed. "Give me de gun."

"Why?"

"Gambit's got an idea."

Those words sent a shiver down Rogue's spin. But before she had time to make up her mind, the leader himself came charging down the alley, machine gun at the ready. Gambit tore the gun from her hands. "_Pardon moi_, _chère_, but sometimes a Cajun's gotta do what a Cajun's gotta do."

"Well then stop yahr talkin' and Goddamn _do it!_" Rogue yelled.

"Wit' pleasure." One hand still on the bike, Gambit fired over his shoulder. Mid-air, the bullet pulsed a vivid, livid pink, but it was obvious that it would miss the leader, who raised his gun and––

_BANG!_

The charged bullet collided with the dumpster, which exploded, obliterating half the parking lot and all the men. Fire licked at their backs as they finally hit the main road. Rogue felt like cheering but the bike was rapidly picking up speed.

"Put y' feet on the holds and y' hands on y' knees, _chère_," Gambit instructed.

"What?" Rogue screamed, clinging to his waist for dear life. "Are ya crazy? Ah'll stay like this, thanks."

"No, _chère_. Y' gotta let Remy drive the bike."

"Ya _are _drivin' the bike, swamp rat."

"Can't unless y' let go."

"Uh-uh. No way."

"Let go, _s'il vous plait_."

"Ah told ya! Ah can't speak French!"

They thundered down the road. Rogue would have screamed had the bike's slipstream not raped her lungs of air; being too petrified to move was also a defining factor. Gambit leaned to a left as they swept around a corner and a great whoosh of air pushed past them, unsettling her. She closed her eyes tight, but the uncertainty of the blackness only heightened her fear. If she was going to die, Hell, she would look it in eye. Every cubic inch of her being screeched at her in bright neon letters to seize hold of Gambit's waist, never to let go, but a little voice in the back of her brain said snidely that if she did such a thing, with the shrieking and the grabbing, it was highly unlikely that she would ever, _ever_ live it down. The more rational side of her couldn't help but to roar that this was not the time to develop an unsurpassable sense of pride.

_Pride before the fall_, it said in a sing-song voice.

Rogue was not amused by the irony.

It was at times like this that she had most appreciated the cast of psyches imprinted on her brain. Logan could have told her exactly what do when riding on the back of a tinpot motorbike down a potholed road out in the Bayou, Magneto might have had a few choice words of wisdom to calm her down, Bobby would have assured her that even if she was a hideous crippled mess paralysed from the neck down with a face like minced meat he would still love her, at which John would have cracked some sarcastic comment that would have made her laugh and temporarily forget her current predicament.

But there were no psyches now (except Frat Boy Jake, who was not helping matters by running around her mental cavity like a headless chicken screaming for his mother at the top of his lungs), and her current predicament was awarded top priority as they careened down a hill with all the grace of a drunken Irishman riding a unicycle balanced on the back of a equally inebriated sheep frolicking through a particularly treacherous bog. Rogue willed herself to stay calm. Her palms were slick with sweat and unable to find purchase on her knees so she held Remy's hips between her thighs in a death grip that would have made an anaconda seem as clingy as a dress fashioned from an entire hot air balloon on Kate Moss. As they swung around a sharp bend her hold felt as insubstantial as air, and she was positive it was sheer willpower that kept her on the bike.

"Hold on _chère_," Gambit yelled over the roar of the wind.

"_Where?_"

This comment could have been interpreted as cheeky, sarcastic, ungrateful, confused or plain desperation, but Gambit was too busy saving his behind to interpret anything other than the ancient bike's speed gauge, and Rogue was far to preoccupied with staying alive to care.

They plunged down a hill and Rogue slammed forward into Remy's back. Plastered against his duster, Rogue felt them become one, mould into each other, a single entity on a bike moving much faster than it ought to be moving. Remy's body protected her from the slipstream and their proximity to one other prevented any wind clawing in between them and unseating her. And Rogue had an epiphany. This was how to ride. Sandwiched against the driver, leaning as they leaned, swearing as they swore. She didn't need to cling to his waist to stay on at all. Rogue was very glad she had listened to the voice and not fallen to pieces. Now safe in the knowledge that she was not about to die a painful death, she was shocked to realise that she was actually having _fun_. If the ground had not been so horrifically near, she might have thought herself to be flying, such was the rush of speed and freedom.

Freedom had a taste: windswept air and diesel and the unique salty leather of Gambit's trench coat.

Gripping with her knees, little by little, inch by inch, Rogue raised her hands out by her sides until she was Kate Winslet standing on the stern of the Titanic. She threw back her head and let out a scream of pure, unadulterated delight.

"_Wooooooooooohoooooooooooooo!_"

"Dat's the spirit, _chére!_"

And then they started going uphill and suddenly things weren't so fun anymore and the feeing of impending doom returned with a vengeance. Downhill Gambit's body protected her from the rushing air and his presence prevented her from going head over heels over the handlebars. But uphill, she was on her own. No one separated her from the road. Images of her broken body lying sprawled in the dust, the back of her head ripped away by the impact, flooded into her mind. The bike groaned ominously and Gambit slowed. Rogue sighed. All the air left her body and she turned limp as a bonefish, slumped against Gambit's back, a little shell-shocked, a little dazed and very much relieved.

Then he accelerated.

Rogue was suddenly aware of a complete absence of anything. No Gambit. No bike. No ground. She seemed to hover, frozen in time, at a crossroads between the three, one of which would be making her acquaintance very soon. Falling upwards was impossible, so the bike was out of the question. Gravity was glaring at her, clearly saying, _hey you, what do you think you're doing up there? Get your ass back down here pronto girl! _and the ground was suddenly much, much closer and harder than Rogue was altogether comfortable with.

And that's when Gambit grabbed her, yanking her back onto the bike. Her knight in leather armour. Her third knight in leather armour. The third Musketeer.

Fourth, if you counted Bobby. Which she didn't. And either way, his jacket wasn't real leather.

"Remy told y' t' hold on, _chere_," Gambit exclaimed. "_Mon Dieu! _Y' got a death wish or somet'in'?"

Rogue was too busy rejoicing in her continued existence to retort.

Compared with her most recent near-death experience the rest of the ride seemed mundane. They were now trundling down lazy streets, skirting stray cat and potholes alike. Rogue could taste salt on the air; she knew they must be near the coast. Gambit pulled the bike into a swerve and a smart stop in front of a respectable-enough dwelling. At least, it had a front door. With a boneless grace he disembarked. Rogue remained on the bike. She felt as though she would be doing so for a long time.

Gambit chuckled. "Y' gettin' off _chère_?"

Rogue nodded listlessly. She didn't move.

"Here. Remy'll help y'. Never let it be said dat Gambit ain't a gentleman."

"No!" Her voice was surprisingly strong. She leaned back, warding away his hands. "No. Ah am perfectly capable of gettin' of this thang by mahself, though Ah thank ya for yahr chivalry. No doubt it was a traumatic experience." In her mind she rehearsed the disembarking routine: first she would swing her left leg over, then put her right foot on blessed _terra firma_, then finally her left. All in all, a thoroughly uncomplicated procedure, though dignified. However, the reality proved quite different: she did a little wiggle and flopped into the dust, somehow managing to snag her leg on the exhaust pipe on the way down. There might have been pain, but her brain was too numb to process it. She lay there, on the ground, breathing, soaking everything in, every last second of the most terrifying electrify experience in her life, until Gambit's hoot of laughter brought her back to life.

"Stay dere," he sniggered. "Remy wants a picture o' dis."

Rogue flashed him a most unladylike hand gesture.

"Oh _chère!_ Such language from a _belle femme _like y'self. Remy's shocked."

"Oh, Ah'll shock ya alright," Rogue growled, clawing her way to her feet using the motorbike for support.

"Dat a threat, _chère_?"

"It's a promise."

She made to step forward, but she staggered and cried out in some inexplicable pain, and, because Fate is so very cruel, fell into Gambit's waiting arms. Rogue closed her eyes, preparing herself for the merciless onslaught of teasing that was about to befall her … but nothing happen. Gambit set her down gently on an empty keg and scanned her for injuries. Rogue did the same. They quickly found the culprit: an angry red splotch stood out where her leg had brushed the exhaust pipe. A contact burn.

"Ah," Remy hissed. "Dat's gotta hurt. C'mon. Let's get y' inside. Clean dat up." He swept her off her feet.

"Oh no! Put meh down! Ah can walk. Put meh down rahght now, ya stinkin' swamp rat! Argh!" Rogue screamed in frustration, kicking furiously. She had been the damsel in distress once before and it had not been a pleasant experience. _Ergo_, she disliked all things that reminded her of that experience, not matter how many white knights in leather dusters came riding by on prehistoric motorbikes. Even though said knight's arms were the perfect cradle, holding her snug against his lean chest, while his warm scent filled her nostrils. "_Put meh _DOWN!"

Gambit gave a liquid shrug. "As y' wish."

It seemed they were destined to be from the start of the evening, and you can't run from your destiny, so, without much ado, and at long last, Rogue thudded to the ground.

"Damn Cajun! Ah said–– "

"Put me down, so Remy put y' down," Gambit smirked from behind his sunglasses. "What? Y' wanna come back up already? Miss me, _neh?_"

"Ya _dropped_ meh!" Rogue accused wrathfully.

Gambit held up his hands. "Remy was jus' doin' like y' said, _ma chère_. It was y' dat never specified _how_ y' wanted t' be put down."

Rouge glowered up at him from the ground. "Ah took ya fohr a no-good flirt the moment Ah saw ya, Cajun, but Ah never took ya for a fool. What kind o' person _lahkes_ being dropped?"

"Sorry." He sounded sincere and held out his hand, wiggling the half-clothed fingers. He looked so adorable, a cheeky puppy who's just peed on the new carpet, that Rogue grudgingly grabbed his hand and together they passed into the house. For its shabby exterior, the inside well exceeded Rogue's expectations. Gambit settled her in an armchair and ghosted away in search of a First Aid kit.

"Is this yahr house?" she asked, her eyes skimming over old photographs and a collection of china frogs all set out on the mantelpiece.

Gambit looked highly offended. "Dis? Gambit's?"

"Don't tell meh we're stealin' this too!" Rogue exclaimed, throwing her hands up in exasperation.

"Y' can't steal a house, _chère_," Gambit called, poking his head around the doorpost.

"So we're squattin'?"

He scratched his chin thoughtfully, head cocked to one side. "Remy prefers _borrowin_'."

"God give meh patience," Rogue muttered through clenched teeth. Gambit withdrew upstairs; Rogue could hear him rifling through the medicine cabinet, whistling tunelessly to _Living On A Prayer _as he fired out-of-date prescriptions over his shoulder into the shower. It was remarkable, she thought, that someone could be as slick and silent as mercury in their personal movements, and then so loud. Fearing for the shower, she clattered up the rickety stairs after him and limped into the bathroom. Perching herself on the toilet, she watched him attempt to open a roll of gauze with his teeth, tearing at the plastic.

"Ah always knew ya were a rat," she remarked as he spat out little bits of plastic. "But Ah nevah knew ya were a dog too."

He cocked his head, throwing her a wink. A frill of plastic clung to the stubble darkening his chin. "Gambit's whoever y' want him t' be."

_God spare me_ – or that was what Rogue meant to say, with much eye rolling and heavy-handed sarcasm. What she actually did was giggle in a most Kitty-ish fashion. Gambit said nothing. He knelt down before her and slit open an antiseptic wipe. With the hands of a surgeon, he began to clean her wound, moving in small circles inwards from the dirty surrounding area to the burn, already blistering. She curled her hands up tight, determined not to flinch as the iodine played a grand symphony on her nerve endings. To distract herself, Rogue watched Gambit work. His tongue poked out as he concentrated; his touch was a light as feather. So tender Rogue almost wished that they weren't separated by a sterile wipe.

_Sterile _– the thought brought a smile to her face. This didn't go unnoticed by Gambit as he spread burn salve over the wound. "_Voila_," he declared, securing the bandage with the finesse of someone who's been there and done that. A professional. "Dat weren't so bad, _non?_"

"Ya can say that again when it starts peelin'," Rogue grumbled, poking nervously at the bandage. Free from blood and soot, the burn nicely concealed by a clean white dressing, her leg looked fine – not that she would tell him so.

He slapped her hand away. "Don' touch it, _chére_. Let it heal on its own."

"But it _stings_," she whined.

Gambit grinned wickedly. "Maybe Remy can make it better."

Rogue raised an eyebrow, her arms folded across her chest, a picture of scepticism. "And how, pray tell, do ya plan on doin' that?"

"Like dis," he whispered. He laid his bare fingers against her leg. Rogue felt the itch, the pull, but refused to scratch it. Slowly, he raised her leg upwards, and his face downwards, though his eyes behind the dark lenses remained fixed on hers. And he pressed his lips to her skin.

Instantly his skin drained white, blue spider webs crisscrossed his face, fanning out from his lips, the epicentre of the earthquake. Rogue began to shake and her fingertips pulsed with pink light.

"_Stop!_"

She fell backwards, he stayed put. Her mind was reeling, a rollercoaster, somersaulting with screaming people. Why hadn't her guard stayed up for the kiss? True, she hadn't been expecting it, but Emma had taught her how to deal with the unexpected. She felt ashamed. Betrayed. All her hard work, and nothing. Once again, she was untouchable.

She forced herself to her feet, pushing past Gambit, still in a crouch but his normal colour returned, and out into the hallway. When she reached the stairs, she began to run, ignoring the throbbing pain in her leg. Kicking open the backdoor, she burst out into the night. She sprinted down the road, barefoot and away. She didn't know where she was, nor where she was going, but it was immaterial. All that mattered was that she got away, away from people whom she could hurt. People she loved.

The burn of her lungs, her legs, meant nothing. She had been taught to push past the physical pain. But from the mental, she could not escape. Her eyes closed, running blind, Rogue saw his face, over and over again, blackened veins capturing his face like vines, his normally sandy skin the wrong side of porcelain. Her brain conjured up the image of a tiny china doll and its face was painted in blue lines. Only they weren't lines, they were cracks, and the moment she touched him, he shattered, and when she went to put him back together, the pieces cut her and ran to dust in her bloody fingers.

Her feet met soft sand and she stumbled, falling face first. Rogue scrabbled about for a footing but her fingers slipped through the powder and she got nowhere; running to stand still. She clawed her way forward on her belly, egged on by the nearby throbs and rushes of the ocean. Ocean – water – washing – clean. Her thought process was fragmented yet so clear. It was so simple, so logical: she would scrub herself raw, scrub until there was nothing left because no skin meant no powers.

Cold water washed over her fingers and her knees grew damp, resting on wet sand. It was sudden, the cold, against the balmy evening, and it made her stop and look up. The caress of the warm wind against her face stirred up the memories of Gambit's lips and Jake's hand, of Logan and Pyro, the day outside Bobby's house when she grabbed hold of his ankle. These were the only true warmth she had experienced in years.

The wind stung her cheeks and that was when she realised she was crying. Hot salty tears, long overdue, splash down her chin and fell, unnoticed, into the surf. She fell backwards, her arms bracing her, and stared out across the universe.

Here was the sea, searching forever, black yet so blue, lights from late bedroom windows danced gold over the bay, seemingly beneath it, igniting that darkness from within, like a stained glass window on a summer's Sunday morning. But what was one drop of water in the ocean?

Above her was the sky, light by a thousand million stars, each and every one more beautiful and precious than all the diamonds in Tiffany's put together – but that was only at a distance. Maybe stars taught an invaluable lesson. Nothing is as it seems, beauty isn't everything, up close you can see the cracks. But what was one star in infinity?

She scrunched up her feet, a little chilly, burrowing them down under sand for heat. She could feel the grains beneath her nails, between her toes. A whole beach of sand. How many grains was that? More than drops in the ocean, stars in the sky? But what was one grain in the Sahara Desert?

Sitting here, amidst all those drops, all those stars, all that sand, Rogue had never felt so alone. So what if the stars were cold and hard; they were innumerable, they had friends and perhaps they talked to each other, perhaps meteors were messengers, paper aeroplanes that carried scrawled secrets from star to star. One drop of water did not make an ocean and one grain of sand did not make a beach, millions upon billions were needed, yet together they were one. And she, she was alone, an intruder on the beach, in the ocean, beneath the stars.

Way down at the other end of the beach, a fire was dying. Shadows hung about it. They were laughing, their songs riding on the soft waves. Just teenagers doing what teenagers do best. Hanging with friends, making bonds with words and alcohol that, in that moment, are indestructible.

Rogue was a teenager, just nineteen. Where were her friends?

The old ones, Logan and Kitty, Jubilee, Piotr, Storm and even Bobby? New York. And New York, only one flight away, felt like the end of the world.

The new ones? Emma Frost? Were they friends? Associates? Student and teacher? Or slave and master?

And what about the ones who were gone? What about the Professor, Scott and Jean, Kurt Wagner, the German teleport who had once saved her life. And John? Was he, by any chance, sitting just like her, looking up at the stars, thinking of just how alone he was?

"Y' not as alone as y' dink, _chére_."

Rogue jumped a foot into the air.

"Goddammit swamp rat!" she swore, stumbling away from Gambit, crouched beside her in the surf. She had been so deep in thought she hadn't even noticed him sit down; or perhaps it had been all him, his silent grace. "Don't do that! Sneakin' up on meh! Ya almost gave meh a heart attack."

Gambit smirked. "Jus' returning the favour, _chère_." There was something different about him, something was missing, but Rogue couldn't quite put her finger on it. Probably because she was too engaged in yelling at him.

"Ah thought Ah told ya not tah call me _chère_," she raged.

"What else am I gonna call y'?" he argued. "Don' know y' real name."

Rogue stopped dead. "Mah real name?"

"_Oui_. As in de name y' parents gave y'. Or de name y' gave y'self. Both are equally real, I dink," he added after a moment's consideration.

"Rogue. Mah name's Rogue."

He laid a soft hand on her shoulder. "Y're not alone … Rogue."

Rogue looked up into his eyes and saw that, even though he was a thief and a liar and more of a rogue than she'll ever be, he meant every word. His eyes were devil red on black.

And just like that, the stars didn't matter. Fireflies that flew too high, dreamed too big and got stuck up there, boiling balls of gas burning billions of miles away, old kings of the past, watching over us; it didn't matter. They were just stars. And the ocean, it was just an ocean. Cool and soothing over her feet, the constant wash of the waves a lullaby. But, in the end, it was only the bayou, the bay, nothing more. The sand gave way under her fingers as she leant back, slipping and sliding to accommodate her, rough yet smooth, still clinging to the heat of the long-forgotten sun, but it was only a beach. Something nice to sit on, to listen to the song of sea, to stargaze with a friend. A new friend, perhaps; a true friend.

"Ah'm sorry," Rogue whispered. "Fohr stealin' ya lifeforce and powers and thangs. Didn't get any o' ya memories, though. Lucky meh … Ya just startled meh. With the kiss. Wasn't expectin' it …" she trailed off lamely, shrugging, her cheeks a little pink.

Gambit's lips curled upwards into a crooked grin to beat all crooked grins. "Y' c'n drain my energy any time, _chère_. Gambit has plenty."

"Why thank ya," she returned dryly. "Gambit."

"Remy," he insisted quietly. "Call me Remy."

"Lahke ya friends do?"

"_Oui_."

A smile split Rogue's face. There are some things you simply cannot do without becoming friends, and participating in high-speed motorcycle chases is one of them.

"_Ami?_" she ventured.

It was probably the only word of French she knew. It made him smile.

"_Ami._"

Rogue held out her hand, no glove. Remy took it instantly. But he didn't shake. He pressed it to his lips, lips as smooth as spun glass.

* * *

So? What did we think? I'd love some good honest feedback.


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